


Gone and Left Me Blue

by truelovetakesawhile



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Lance (Voltron), Hurt Lance (Voltron), Kidnapping, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) Whump, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Memory Loss, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic Attacks, Quintessence (Voltron), Recovered Memories, Recovery, Slow Burn Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:08:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 64,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24741331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truelovetakesawhile/pseuds/truelovetakesawhile
Summary: Lance has been missing for months. When the team finds him, they realize he doesn't remember his past--not even his name. While they try to help their friend cope after his rescue and attempt to regain his memories, they also need to figure out what he's been training for while he's been gone. What have the Galra been plotting, and what exactly have they done to Lance?
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 375
Kudos: 637





	1. Moonlight Night

Whenever the light turned on, he woke.

When food slid through the little slot in his door, he ate.

It was the same every morning and Blue liked the routine. He was happy.

After he ate, there was a place on the floor for Blue to leave his tray, and then he could sit on the edge of his bed and wait and wait and _relax_ wait until the next part of his day arrived. Until the knock came on his door, and he would stand in just the right way and smile just widely enough. Then they would let him out.

Sometimes there were only sentries waiting and Blue knew those were the days he’d be most tired, but he didn’t mind. He liked training. He liked pushing himself to his limits, past them, perfecting himself so wholly sometimes the sentries needed to drag him back to his room afterward because his legs weren’t working very well. He was happy.

Sometimes it was someone older, purple-er, who didn’t like when Blue looked her in the eyes, but he didn’t mind. He liked not remembering what happened on those days. He liked stepping out of his room and blinking and feeling like he stepped back inside only a moment later. He liked that his head hurt afterward because it meant he’d been doing something good. Productive. He was happy.

On the best days, it was his friend who knocked. Blue rarely knew what to expect on those days, but that didn’t matter because he liked spending time with his friend and together they were happy.

The day always ended in one of three ways.

The worst were the days he’d been bad. Disrespectful. Disappointing. Weak. Failing, disgraceful, stupid. Then the sentries or the woman or his friend would come to his door and he’d stand like he was supposed to if his legs could still hold him. Tilt his head to the side, just right. Hold still while something sharp poked through his skin and injected something into his veins. _The bad stuff_. Blue didn’t like remembering what happened after, but he usually did. Because he was good. Because he had to be better. 

Happier.

Some days his friend came and asked Blue to stand because he thought Blue had been working hard and deserved something nice. A reward. A pinch on his neck and something warm and slick sliding through his veins, across his vision, clouding his thoughts and nerves and feelings until his friend was helping him sit back on his bed and he could only feel . . . happy. Loose, chaotic, whirling whimsically wonderfully happy.

Most days, there was another tray slid through the slot on his door with a glass sitting in the center of the gray metal. Clear, clean, filled with a liquid that looked like molten gold. Deceptively cool when it looked like it could burn him through as soon as it brushed against Blue’s lips. It _did_ burn a little as soon as he drank it, smoldering through his veins and cutting straight to his heart. It made his skin buzz, his head swim, his bones and sinew and tissue all strain toward—nothing. Emptiness. It felt like Blue dissolved.

It helped him remember to be good.

\- - -

When the lights flicked on in what Blue considered morning, the purple fluorescents emitted enough of a buzz to pull him from not-quite dreams. He didn’t have those anymore, and he didn’t sleep in anymore, because he was better than that.

Stretching, he slunk off of his cot, readying his muscles for what the day could bring. 

He ate when his food arrived.

He stood when there was a knock on his door.

Sentries. He was disappointed _happy_ Blue was pleased to see them. They led him down the hall and he followed, to the training rooms where he’d spent hours _and hours and hours and hours_ building himself into someone stronger. Faster. He still preferred the days he spent on target practice, but Blue embraced any kind of combat, now. Anything that made his blood sing.

Later, the sentries brought him more food to eat. They marched him down the hall to the showers, where Blue washed away the sweat earned from hard work and dedication. Then it was back to his room.

He sat on the edge of his bed, waiting. Purple light buzzed softly overhead.

He’d been good that day. Blue knew he had. He’d listened to every order from the sentries, destroyed every target set in front of him. His hands throbbed, but it was a good ache, and he curled his calloused fingers over his palms while he waited.

Usually, there was another knock on the door, no matter whether they were coming in to punish or reward him—even if they were only going to slide his tray through the door with the little glass of gold nestled onto the steel.

But Blue waited and no one came.

His room was quiet except for the soft echo of his own breathing.

The purple lights flickered overhead—once, twice. They never did that, glowing steadily from the moment he opened his eyes to the second they were shut off at night when he was meant to sleep. Blue didn’t worry about it, nor the strange tremor running through the metal beneath his feet. 

He was not meant to . . . question.

But . . . perhaps he _had_ done something wrong during training. Something so terrible that when the sentries had delivered their report on his progress, that woman needed time to think of a suitable way to punish him. But Blue had been trained _Blue had been good_ for so long she hadn’t needed anything new, no new hurts, not for a long while.

He didn’t think he’d been so good they were imagining a new reward for him, but then again Blue knew he wasn’t really meant to think much at all.

He wasn’t very good at it.

His legs felt restless but his feet remained still, braced against the floor. There was another odd vibration, a ripple of some unknown, unheard sound _explosion?_ traveling up along his bones. His fingers twitched against his thigh.

The door burst open.

For a moment there was panic _which was bad, very bad, wrong, he wasn’t meant to think like that_ as Blue lurched to his feet because he was meant to already be on them, he was meant to be standing when someone came in his room and it didn’t matter that there hadn’t been any warning, no knock, no way of knowing because he was meant to be _better_ and—

Calm rolled over him, like heat applied liberally to buckled metal until it smoothed. His lips pulled into a practiced smile.

It was his friend, but he didn’t have Blue’s reward in his hands. He held a gun, until the weapon was thrust into Blue’s palms. He gripped it instinctively, more at home with the heavy metal than nearly anything else.

Then he gripped Blue’s arm, hard _harder until it hurt_ but it was fine because Blue had probably done something to deserve it, and his friend dragged him out into the hallway so quickly Blue nearly lost his balance.

Nearly, not quite. His training kept his quick on his feet.

“Blue,” his friend said and he sounded breathless around sharp teeth, white hair in disarray, eyes narrowed. Something shot through Blue’s heart—concern. Was his friend okay? But the grip on Blue’s arm changed, shifted, turning him—pointing Blue’s chin to the end of the hallway.

There was multicolored movement where there were usually only shadows.

“Kill them,” his friend ordered, voice like steel and fire and that golden liquid Blue drank almost every night.

He lifted his gun, because he knew then why Lotor had handed him a weapon, and listening to Lotor—following Lotor—that was what made him the happiest. The gun buzzed warm with a full charge in his hands while footsteps sounded in the corridor behind him—Lotor, leaving.

That was alright.

Blue had his orders.

He trained his weapon on the end of the hall, firing as soon as there was a flash of red in his sights.

Squeezed the trigger.

Missed.

_Missed?_

Blue didn’t miss.

The blur of red was too fast, too quick, too startling, throwing itself to the opposite side of the hall. There was a shriek from further back in the shadows, but it didn’t sound as if Blue had hit something else—more like whatever it was had been surprised they’d dodged him.

No matter.

 _It didn’t matter_.

He smiled harder.

Aimed.

Shot.

Again and again, blasts scarring the floor by the blur’s feet, or the wall near its head—catching it in the shoulder once, in a way that made the red fall back while Blue’s smirk tightened.

The red blur was close enough now for Blue to see that it was actually someone dressed in red armor. Someone who’d come to hurt his friend? An unfamiliar emotion churned in his stomach.

Lotor had said to kill _them_. The figure in red wasn’t alone. Someone in green propped him up, steadied him. And someone in yellow stood nearby, hands slack around a gun that looked like something—well, it all made Blue’s head hurt, throbbing as much as his hands had been before he’d been handed a weapon and given some purpose.

The one in yellow’s helmet flickered, visor disappearing. Revealing brown skin and a gaping mouth and a whisper that sounded like, “Lance?”

It was stupid. A mistake Blue wouldn’t have made even in the beginning of his training. He lifted his gun—

Only to have it knocked aside. Another hit and he lost his grip on it, but his arms were up in time to block the next strike.

Pink. Someone in pink. 

Was this—a test? Lotor had pointed him toward the opposite end of the hallway, to the yellow and green and red, but now there was someone in pink—trying to get beneath his guard, trying to pin him down, before he used her height against her and they flipped. Blue drew back his fist but—but something, someone caught his elbow, yanking him backward, off the one in pink.

Black armor?

Blue’s smile faltered.

Was he—was he supposed to kill these two, as well? Lotor hadn’t said. _Lotor hadn’t said._ Had he failed already? Were they there to punish him for his failure? Was he meant to fight back against them or lay there and accept his punishment?

What was wrong? What was right? His heart kicked into a faster beat as the one in black dragged him backward a few steps.

Maybe—maybe if he killed the others, first, then these two would tell him what he was supposed to do.

Blue swung suddenly, body no longer slack, hooking his legs around the one in black’s ankle and then throwing himself toward him _the attacker? Lotor’s friend?_ until his grip on Blue loosened and he was able to wriggle free. Sliding across the hall, fingertips nearly on his gun—

They were all so close now, it would only take a few quick shots to end it all. To get an explanation, to understand. His smile felt so heavy.

Something wrapped around his reaching arm. A rope? The harder he tried to stretch for his gun _he needed his weapon he was nothing without it he was failing_ the tighter it dug into his arm. Reaching for it, he dug his nails into his skin, trying to pull it _off get it off_ —

There was a _yank_ and Blue slid across the hall, struggling, toward the one in green. The rope extended from something in her hands. Grinding his teeth together, his muscles tensed, Blue readied to spring at her—but the rope suddenly released his arm, sending him crashing into the wall. It hurt.

It didn’t matter.

He’d felt worse.

He needed to get up.

Gathering his feet beneath him, Blue lifted an arm to block her strike, taking it with his forearm. As soon as her weapon touched his skin, it felt like he’d been lit on fire. Electricity raced through him, corrupted him, sent him to the ground with black spots fading in his vision alongside the horror of his failure.

Blue wasn’t . . . he wasn’t happy.

“That should keep him out of it for a few minutes at least,” someone said over him. There was tugging on his arms again, but it felt like his limbs were disconnected, belonging to something—someone—else. If he could move, it was slow and sluggish and weak. He tilted his head, baring his neck; maybe the ones in pink or black would get it over with, inject him, hurt him while he was down and drowning in his defeat.

“What’s wrong with his eyes?” another voice asked.

“I don’t know,” a third voice said. “It’ll be fine.”

He sounded like Blue’s friend did when he was lying.

“You three get him back to the ship,” the voice continued. “We’re going to do another sweep here.”

He was—leaving?

Blue never left. They were supposed to take him back to his room.

Maybe he’d become too much of a disappointment to keep any longer. Maybe he’d failed

He couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

Someone was moving him, when he lost consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooooooooooooo! Welcome to my new fic! I've had this one sitting around in my head for a while so I'm eager to officially get started. Lance is, uh, not really having a great time. Or maybe he is, because he sure _seems_ to be happy. Right? :D
> 
> This fic will definitely have a lot of angst, but we're also going to have a lot of fun with Lance while he's trying to figure things out. Maybe starting with his name.
> 
> Did you like this chapter? What do you think might happen next? I love and appreciate all of your comments!


	2. Shining Bright

Lance didn’t look small. That wasn’t the right word for it.

None of them had known what to expect during the months— _months_ —they’d spent searching for Lance. Afraid to even consider that he might be dead. Worried he’d been starved, tortured, carved into pieces. Long nights spent wondering what would be left over by the time they caught up with him, got him back.

Coran had scanned Lance as soon as they’d managed to get him into the castle. He’d said Lance didn’t need to get into a healing pod.

He hadn’t said Lance was alright.

Back on the castleship, Coran hadn’t seen what the rest of them had witnessed, but he’d heard some of the commotion through their comms. Stunned exhilaration when they’d spotted Lance in that sterile, purple-tinged hallway. Confusion, and horror when their friend—their sharpshooter—turned his gun on them.

Lance hadn’t looked small then, either. He’d exuded a kind of confidence that held none of his typical cockiness. He’d been smiling, but . . .

His eyes.

His eyes had been . . .

Keith kept his fists by his hips, the only display of frustration he allowed himself. He couldn’t pace the infirmary because it was too small, and there were too many other people in there, and he needed to keep an eye on Lance in case he decided to try to murder all of them. Again.

There were new lines of muscle cording Lance’s arms. He’d obviously been fed well, building strength that hadn’t been there when he—

When they’d—

When Lance had been lost.

“It’s him,” Pidge said quietly. The constant clatter of her keyboard stilled as she pulled her hands from her laptop and glanced upward. It felt like every gaze in the room was simultaneously locked on Lance and avoiding him. “It’s really him.”

They hadn’t been sure. After Shiro—after their mistake—there was really no way to be certain of anything, anymore. Pidge had been running her own tests, because they had to double-check. They had to know.

Keith didn’t know what to think.

There’d been a chance it wasn’t Lance in front of them—not _their_ Lance. They’d scoured the ship they’d found him on, after Lance had been secured. There hadn’t been any sign that more than one version of him had ever existed there. That there were any clones.

Some pods had escaped from the ship, in the chaos Lance had created while trying to kill off his teammates, and sometime during the long moments Keith spent contemplating the blast that would have taken out his shoulder if his armor had been a little weaker—Keith realized there was a chance the _real_ Lance had escaped, too.

_No_. Not escaped. Been taken. But it didn’t matter.

The Lance unconscious and cuffed to an infirmary cot was real.

The Lance they’d had to fight against was theirs.

Keith’s stomach twisted but he fought to keep his expression calm. Hunk was already too nervous; Pidge, sinking into a nearby chair now that her tests were finished. The team didn’t need Keith to fall apart; they needed to try to keep their heads.

Lance was going to need them. God, was he going to need their help. 

His face nearly looked peaceful, while he slept. The mild sedative Coran had given him to extend their time to research—to observe—would be wearing off soon. Then they’d be able to come up with a plan. Fixing things had never really been Keith’s _thing_ , but the others were good at it. They’d know what to do.

How to get Lance back, mentally.

“If he’s—if he’s ours, why would he do that?’ Hunk asked, wringing his hands together. “He wasn’t holding back. If Pidge hadn’t—if we—someone could have really gotten hurt. And did you see the look on his face? How he was . . . smiling?”

Yes, Keith had seen. He hadn’t really been able to look away. Lips stretched near manically into a facsimile of joy, and once Keith had gotten closer he’d seen Lance’s eyes.

First, he’d realized their blue had nearly been overtaken by oozing gold.

Then he’d seen that beyond Lance’s gaze, behind it, his eyes looked . . . empty.

Maybe Keith did feel a little sick.

“I don’t believe Lance wished to bring us harm purposefully,” Allura cleared her throat. “Considering Coran’s scans, I believe that Lance’s quintessence has been . . . changed.”

Several overlapping, outraged voices repeated the word back to her: “Changed?”

Keith’s lips pressed closer, into a tighter line.

“Manipulated,” Allura winced. “Altered into something it was never meant to be. I cannot predict what the consequences of this will be on Lance—and what this may mean for him, when he wakes up. He may not have known it was us with him on the ship.”

“It means he might try to kill us again,” Pidge sighed, fiddling with the edge of her laptop.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Keith watched Lance. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the not-quite-gentle cadence of his breathing.

It meant that Coran had been right when he’d said Lance needed no healing pod.

Whatever was wrong with him, Altean technology couldn’t fix.

\- - -

When he opened his eyes, Blue realized the lights were already on.

The lights were—

_How long had they been—_

There was one other thing Blue was allowed to feel, when he wasn’t reminded of his happiness.

Fear.

It’d been a long time since he’d messed up so badly, since he’d woken late; there was a chance they hadn’t seen, but they were always watching, and—and even if they hadn’t, he would need to tell them about this, anyway. Report himself, so they could root out the bad in him.

He jolted, intending to roll to his feet, but his body ached and something was pulled tight across his chest, keeping him . . . down. There were similar restraints—he could feel them, soft and unremarkable and strong—on his wrists and ankles.

It had been a _very_ long time since he’d been _this_ bad. So long ago Blue could hardly remember it. That time had been . . . confusing. He’d thought so many wrong things.

Lifting his head, he realized the lights around him, the ones he should have woken to, were tinged white and blue. Not purple. 

Blue was somewhere different.

There were footsteps against metal, before several people came into view overhead. Peering down at him. There were too many crowded there but that didn’t worry him because he was only allowed to be afraid after he’d done something wrong.

Well, technically, he’d done more than oversleep. Half of these people were meant to be dead.

He recognized the one who’d been in yellow, the one who’d removed his visor, shown his face and made himself into more of a target. It looked like he’d been crying, and that made Blue frown. Perhaps this was another test meant to prove Blue hadn’t digressed into such similar displays of weakness.

“Lance!” the yellow one smiled, but there was an odd strain around the expression. For once, Blue wasn’t smiling, because there would have been no happiness behind it for him, either. “Hey, buddy. How—h-how are you feeling?”

One, two, three, four—there were too many faces pressed together overhead, and more movement just at the periphery of what he could see from this cot betrayed the fact that there were even more people in there. _People_ , not sentries, so this must have been an important test Blue had failed. The only people who ever came to see him were the woman or his friend. The rest were sentries. Innumerable. Indistinct.

How was he meant to answer that question?

It was a trick, sure—a trap. Probably. Usually he was taught what to think—how to feel—before being quizzed on such things like this. Maybe Blue had finally advanced to a new part of his training.

Blue hated new. Usually it was painful.

Someone overhead was muttered something about a heartrate. There were hands fluttering nervously over him, belonging to the one in yellow.

“You don’t—it’s okay,” the stranger said, and vaguely Blue realized he was being patted on the arm. Right above one of his restraints, which were unnecessary, because Blue wouldn’t really move until he had his next orders. “Deep breaths, Lance. You’re safe now. You’re okay.”

Oh. The heartrate they were tracking was his.

But . . . it wasn’t _okay_. _He_ wasn’t okay. Blue was meant to be afraid.

They hadn’t punished him yet.

“Please say something,” another one of them said, taller, wider—perhaps he’d been the one dressed in the black armor. His words felt freeing enough; if—if they wanted Blue to talk, then surely they wouldn’t hurt him more for following their wishes.

Right?

Right.

It was hard to think logically under these new lights, and hard to think at all when he wasn’t really supposed to. When these people delivered orders so softly.

“Am I allowed to ask you questions?” Blue said, voice steady though one of them gasped as if they hadn’t truly expected him to speak. Of course he would, if that was what they wanted. 

He was good. He would be better.

“Of course,” the tall one said. “Yes, you must be—yes. Anything you want to ask.”

_Anything?_

Something truly had changed, then. His friend never would have agreed so readily. There was probably a trick to it, but Blue needed a way to figure out the rules here.

“Am I Lance, now?” Blue asked. Swallowed uncomfortably, when one of the hovering people stepped back, hands in her hair. Maybe it had been a trap, after all, and he shouldn’t have spoken, should have just—

“What do you mean?” the tall one asked, brows drawn together with too much concern. Blue was meant to make everyone happy—the woman, his friend, even the sentries—and seeing that furrow in this stranger’s brow made Blue’s breath catch oddly in his chest.

“You’ve referred to me as ‘Lance’ several times,” Blue said, shifting his gaze between them. “Is that my name, now?”

Silence. The silence was . . . it was . . .

Frightening.

_Why was it so hard to breathe?_

“Shiro,” one of the quieter voices spoke up, lightly accented. Unfamiliar. “His vitals—he’s in distress—”

_Blue_ was? No. He wasn’t allowed to do that, probably.

“What do you think your name is?” the tall one—Shiro—asked carefully.

An easy question. Good. He knew the correct answer.

“Blue,” he said immediately. “My friend gave me that name. If you’d like to give me a new one, I will follow any orders delivered using it.”

There was more silence; Blue—Lance?—was beginning to hate it. This was the only thing that made sense: his friend was disappointed with him, or decided he’d needed more training because he’d failed in that hallway. So he’d sent Blue to them, or left them with Blue, to train him. Teach him.

Maybe Lotor wasn’t coming back for him. The thought made Blue’s heart feel funny. _Distressed_.

“I only needed clarification,” Blue said.

“But Lance has always been your name,” the yellow one sputtered.

“Hunk,” Shiro said softly. _Softly_. It was a tone that his friend only used whenever Blue was tired and hurting and dazed after he’d behaved terribly and they’d punished him. Lotor would—

They’d—

But Shiro didn’t look like he was preparing to hurt Hunk.

Blue didn’t know the rules here, and his chest hurt and his eyes stung and he felt like he couldn’t afford to fall apart and was going to do so, anyway, like all the progress he’d made was being loss, like he just needed them to _get this over with and_ . . . and . . .

Blue didn’t want to be hurt, but what he wanted truly didn’t matter. _They_ weren’t following the rules. They weren’t making any sense.

“You’ve always been Lance,” Hunk said. Something wet fell, hit Blue's chest. “Don’t you—don’t you remember?”

“I remember you said that name in the hallway outside my room,” Blue said, trying to appease. It was getting harder to focus, when he thought now that the pain and punishment and lesson would come out of nowhere, that he wouldn’t have a chance to brace himself against it.

“You don’t—don’t you remember us?” Hunk asked.

“I do,” Blue nodded. Something shifted behind his head—a pillow? He didn’t—didn’t deserve that, after his failure. Didn’t deserve to be treated . . . gently. “We met in the hallway.”

“Coran,” Shiro addressed someone Blue couldn’t see. “The quintessence manipulation—”

“Could it have affected young Lance’s memories? I certainly suppose it could.” Another head popped into view for Blue—a shock of orange hair, pointed ears. An attempt at a smile, once Coran realized he’d gained Blue’s attention. “Perhaps blocking access to them in some way. It appears that Lance should have no problem with creating new memories, as he does recall, ah, meeting all of you.”

There was a little poke at Blue’s shoulder.

“Do you remember me, dear boy?” Coran asked. Some of the light in his eyes dimmed, when Blue shook his head. “Not to worry. I’m Coran. We’re all here to help you. We’ll have you fixed up faster than a two-footed wartrill can sing!”

Blue did not know what to say to that.

“Okay,” he agreed, pressing down his uncertainty—hopefully far enough to actually lose it.

Coran took Shiro by the elbow, tugging him out of sight, their hushed voices overlapping too much for Blue to properly overhear. Hunk, appearing ill yet again, turned away.

The quiet one—the _silent_ one, who hadn’t spoken—remained. Dark hair and eyes that reminded Blue of the lights remembered, except this purple was deeper, pools of amethyst he could have fallen into if he hadn’t been strapped down.

“Keith,” the quiet one said. He looked angry, and that felt more familiar to Blue than the reactions of all the others combined. “I’m Keith. And you’re Lance. _Only_ Lance. That’s your name.”

“Okay,” Lance said again, nodding once. It was possibly the easiest thing he’d ever been taught. A painless lesson.

“Are you going to try to kill us again?” Keith asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“No,” Lance said, not knowing why admitting so felt like another loss. “Unless you would order me to try again.”

“No. God, no. Don’t try to kill us,” Keith said, waiting until Lance nodded. “No more trying to kill us.”

Lance didn’t really understand, but he’d been taught that he didn’t have to when he was given orders.

“Okay,” he agreed, wondering who he might have to kill instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV will switch between Lance and Keith depending on where it'd be best to see the scene from, so please let me know if that ever gets confusing! From now on, Lance will be referred to as Lance, because he learned his name :D Hooray! Except . . . he still doesn't know who these people are. Or where he is. Or what's happening to him. Oops.
> 
> Thanks so much for your comments on the last chapter! I'm excited to dive into this fic which will feature a lot of recovery and angst. And flashbacks. Don't worry, you'll get to see what has happened to our boy :D
> 
> What did you think of this chapter?
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	3. From on High

The one called Coran wanted to speak with Lance in private. In one of the moments when they either thought they were far enough away that Lance couldn’t hear, or that he wouldn’t be listening anyway, they concluded it might make him feel safer if they crowded him a little less. _Feel_ safer? That was some kind of trap, then; Lance didn’t need to feel anything like that. But the voices trailed off; from his position on the cot he couldn’t see well, but it sounded like doors slid apart and several pairs of footsteps left.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, my boy,” Coran said, smiling when he came into view. The expression made his vivid mustache twitch in a way that warmed something in Lance’s chest. He shifted uncomfortably. Usually that sensation was reserved for after he was rewarded, or when his friend came to visit and reminded Lance of how happy he was.

But then his—his lungs didn’t seem to be working. 

_I’m sorry_ Coran had said.

_Sorry?_

“Lance?” There was a slight pressure by Lance’s leg as Coran sat beside him, on the edge of his cot. The good humor in his gaze seemed dimmed; that was probably Lance’s fault. “What’s wrong? I sent the others away because I thought you might be more comfortable having a talk with me without so many eyes on you. This must be a lot different than what you’ve—what you’ve experienced over the last few months, eh? Have I done something to upset you? Tell me.”

It was an order. Lance’s mouth opened before he could even think about what he’d tell Coran.

“You said you were sorry. You aren’t supposed to be,” Lance said. This Coran—these people, they weren’t anything like the sentries, or that woman, or his friend. It made his head ache horribly. “ _I_ should be apologizing. I failed you, Coran. I didn’t kill them. I overslept. I—I asked too many questions—”

There was warmth wrapped around his hand, comforting and solid and grounding; Lance glanced downward and realized Coran’s hand was wrapped around his fingers.

“It’s alright. You’re alright. You don’t need to apologize to any of us, Lance,” Coran said urgently. “Now, I’m not quite sure what’s going on in that head of yours, but we’re going to have it figured out faster than—ah, well. If you couldn’t recall my name I doubt you’ll remember any of my perfect analogies.”

It seemed—it seemed _safer_ to be quiet, for a moment. 

“Will you try to harm anyone if I remove these?” Coran’s grip on his hand shifted, tapping the soft restraint around Lance’s wrist.

“If you tell me to,” Lance said. The frown he received in return made Lance’s stomach squirm. “No?”

“We’re your friends here, my boy. You make your own decisions. No one will be giving you any orders,” Coran said, releasing the restraint. “Well, eventually, perhaps Shiro—and then Allura—”

“I listen to _their_ orders?” Lance asked. Relief trickled through him, pooled in his veins, relaxing him even as Coran reached for his other wrist. Maybe Shiro and Allura _Allura?_ were in charge just like Lotor, and beneath them was Coran? The others, maybe they were there because they had no sentries. Hierarchy. Order. That was what Lance needed, because he was tired and afraid and confused and only really allowed to feel one of those.

“Well, yes, but only in certain situations,” Coran said. He frowned again like it was hard for _him_ to parse through, and Lance could relate. Strong hands slid beneath his shoulders, helping Lance upright when the strap across his chest was undone. “I think if we speak about what happened to you, it’ll be easier to understand how you’re currently thinking. Then we’ll know how best to explain things to you.”

Coran said it in a way that made Lance think that made they were going to try to change how he thought. Sitting there, curling his hands in the sheets pooled around him, Lance wondered what that meant. Lotor had spent so long ensuring Lance was perfect—well, nearly perfect. Punishment was rarer for him, now. And Coran meant for him to start over?

“Friends don’t order each other around the way you’re thinking,” Coran said. “You don’t need to do anything I ask you to, Lance, if you would prefer not to. If there’s a question you don’t want to answer, something you don’t want to tell me—why, just tell me _no_ , and we’ll move right along. Alright? We can stop at any time.”

“Okay,” Lance lied, because he knew that was another trick. The simplest lesson. Orders were orders, meant to be followed. _Never_ denied.

“Let’s start with this,” Coran said. “What’s the first thing you remember?”

\- - -

It hurt.

His eyes were sore, staring up at the purple lights. He didn’t know how long he’d been there or where he was or who those voices belonged to.

“Try again,” a voice said, sounding like crackling energy, sending Lance’s skin crawling. “Go ahead.”

A face swam into view overhead—smooth lilac skin. White hair. A sharp-toothed smile.

“Hello.”

Danger buzzed at the back of Lance’s neck.

_Where am I?_

“It’s generally considered polite to respond when someone speaks to you,” the man said. He didn’t sound angry—bemused, maybe, like they’d had this conversation before. But Lance didn’t think that was the case, or he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t remember.

His head ached, like he’d knocked it into a wall. Or like someone had hit him, over and over and over—

“Hello,” Lance said uncertainty, because the man was starting to frown.

“Do you know who I am?”

It felt like a loaded question because part of Lance immediately said _yes_. Of course he knew this person looming over him, all shining hair and prying eyes. But no name came to mind. And where would they have met, anyway? There had been nothing before this room. There’d been . . . no one.

“No,” Lance said, because he didn’t have it in him to lie.

Those lips curved into a softer kind of smile. “Do you know who you are?”

_Who am I?_

He tried to picture his own face. It was odd, because he knew all the parts that were meant to be there—hair and eyes and a nose and mouth—but couldn’t picture what they’d look like. Only knew the color of his own skin because he could look down at his hands, at them shaking. Knocking against the metal of the table he lay on—was trapped on.

_Who am I?_

At some point, he’d had a name. He’d learned how to speak, the meaning behind words. Somehow. From someone. But he could only see the woman, and the man leaning over him. Couldn’t think of . . . anyone else.

Including himself.

“No,” Lance said again. 

That made the man smile; his harsh features looked almost nice.

“One can be successful at nearly anything if they’re persistent enough,” the other voice, the one that made Lance’s muscles tighten until he thought his bones were going to crack, drawled from somewhere unseen. “I knew we would get our desired result.”

The man made some noise of agreement, but his eyes were already narrowing. “Yet the work has hardly begun.”

Lance swallowed, throat incredibly dry, words resistant. “Where—”

“No,” the man said sharply. “You will not speak unless spoken to. You wouldn’t like to upset me when you haven’t even received your reward yet for our success today. It’s cause for celebration.”

His face dipped out of view while Lance’s eyebrows drew together. _Reward?_ He knew that was meant to be a positive thing, though his mind remained blank when he tried to think of examples of moments similar to this in his past. Perhaps there hadn’t been any. Like there’d been nothing before this moment, in this room, with these people.

Maybe they were there to help him.

They could tell him what to do. They’d explain what was happening.

The man returned with something sharp in his hand. Instinctively, Lance tried to shrink backward, but the cold metal of the table beneath him was unyielding. Restraints dug into his wrists until he felt his skin tear. He wanted to shout—to question—but he wasn’t supposed to speak.

_Why?_ Because the man had said so.

“No, no,” he only chuckled upon seeing Lance’s distress. “You’ll learn to like this one, I promise. _This_ is your reward.”

Holding up the needle, turning it for Lance’s benefit so he could see the clear liquid inside, glistening oddly. It made Lance’s stomach turn. His body, it wanted him to get away from it—to run, to fight—but . . . this man had said it was a good thing.

Shouldn’t Lance trust him?

It didn’t matter in the end. Whether Lance wanted it or not, there was nowhere else for him to go. The man was quick, plunging the needle into his neck. It pinched—it hurt—and for a flash of a moment, Lance wondered if he’d been wrong. If he shouldn’t have trusted him.

And then everything turned . . . happy. There was no good way to describe it.

Lance wasn’t worried anymore.

Warmth crept through his veins. The cold from the table no longer bothered him; it felt like he was hugging—hugging _something_ strong and comforting and warm, but Lance’s thoughts had been struggling enough beforehand and in that moment it was so easy to just . . . let go. Dissolve in the feeling of safety and relief, pure bliss.

The purple lights overhead blurred.

Lance’s head dropped back; he hadn’t realized how tense his muscles had become until it felt like every one of them relaxed. Boneless. Lips pulling into a smile fit to match the man’s standing over him.

Well—probably. The man had gone blurry, too. When Lance blinked—a movement so detached from him it felt like it took a lifetime, now—the man became two, then three, then one again. It looked like there was a shadowed figure over his shoulder, but Lance couldn’t focus on it. He didn’t care.

There was nothing for him to worry about.

Nothing to focus on but the _goodness_ crawling through his veins.

“See? I knew you would like it,” the man said and when he paused, Lance nodded. It made the world tilt.

_Yes_. Of course he liked it. He didn’t need to think about where or who or what he was. Didn’t need to think about . . . anything.

The man could take care of that.

“My name is Lotor,” the man said. “As long as you serve me well, you’ll continue to receive your reward. You won’t like finding out what your punishment will be.”

Why would Lance ever do _anything_ deserving a punishment when otherwise he could feel like _this_? His eyes felt heavy, prickling, wet. He didn’t know why. That didn’t matter.

It was harder to keep his eyes open.

“Your real training will begin once this wears off,” Lotor said as Lance’s eyes slipped closed again. “I’m looking forward to it.”

\- - -

Coran had been typing on what he called a datapad for a while as Lance told him what he remembered. That waking up had been a good thing. Meeting Lotor had taught him . . . _everything_. There was nothing else. There was no _before_.

Before he’d started typing, Coran had asked for his consent to take notes. _Yes_ , Lance had said immediately, which made Coran pause, and he’d interrupted the remembering to remind Lance _again_ that he didn’t need to agree to everything anyone said to him. _No_ was an option, too.

It felt like something he had no right to, so Lance remained silent. At—at home, they were always writing down things about him, anyway. Observing him. Testing him. No one asked if that was . . . alright.

“Do you know what they were giving you?” Coran asked, glancing upward and tugging on the end of his mustache. Lance shook his head, though he wished he had the answer; it looked like Coran was stressed and that was never a good sign. 

“It was different,” Lance offered up when Coran’s head bowed down again. Although he felt like he was speaking too much, if giving more information was what made these people happy—would get him his reward, again—he’d do it. He’d do anything they wanted. “It was different when they—when I needed to be punished. I don’t know what that was, either.”

His fingertips ghosted over his neck, but there would never be any indication there of how many times needles had slid into his skin.

Because—

Because they’d—

It didn’t matter. 

The _bad_ part of him hoped Coran wouldn’t ask about his punishments. That would remind these people that Lance deserved worse, probably, because of all he’d failed to do to them and for them.

Coran didn’t ask, but it seemed like part of him wilted. “I’m sorry, Lance, but I think I’ll need to test you further to see if we can’t determine what they were using—”

Lance nodded. He was used to tests.

“—and anyway, in the meantime, hope that by clearing out your system things will become, ah, a little clearer overall for you. Perhaps that little memory problem will be resolved, eh? Things must be rather confusing,” Coran sighed. “Just remember to ask as many questions as you’d like. Ask us for anything you need. Alright?”

Nodding again was easy, because Lance couldn’t think of anything he’d need that they wouldn’t give him. If it wasn’t handed to him, it’d be because he hadn’t earned it yet.

Unless . . . that wasn’t how things worked here. Unless that was why he was allowed to ask questions.

“Coran,” Lance said, though he faltered when the other flinched as if he hadn’t expected to be addressed. “This is . . . my new home?”

He had to know.

If there were new rules and people to follow—if this new place was meant to be his—

It looked like Coran’s eyes were shining.

“This is—yes, Lance. This is your home,” Coran said, and his arm shifted like he wanted to grab Lance before he thought better of it. “You’re home, Lance.”

\- - -

It was decided it would be best for Lance to get some rest. He didn’t protest, though there was really no reason for him to be tired; he’d just woken, and none of their tests had been physical. The most they had him do was stand from the cot, and even then the one called Shiro had returned and held out his arms as if he thought Lance would fall.

He wasn’t that weak.

Yes, his limbs ached a little because of whatever the small one had used to shock him, subdue him. But he’d felt worse. The fact that they weren’t making him feel that _worse_ thing, the punishment, was . . . puzzling. It made his head ache, but the room didn’t spin and his feet remained steady.

The hall was lit by unfamiliar light, too. It was strange because the only thing in sight that felt familiar was Shiro’s arm—perhaps it had been a gift to him, just like Lance? He was allowed to ask questions, but he didn’t quite feel bold enough to actually do so.

Coran walked on one side of him, Shiro on the other. Perhaps they thought he would startle and run—try to escape from his failures. But Lance was better than that.

“Is it alright if I tell the others what you’ve shared with me?” Coran asked. They passed no one else in the hallway, surprisingly empty for how spacious this ship felt. There were no sentries. There was no sign of that woman, or Lotor. “It may help us to determine how best to help you.”

“Okay,” Lance said, and then shrugged for good measure because he’d never had any secrets before and . . . really, he’d already expected these people to know all about him. Maybe Lotor had handed him over abruptly, without explaining anything.

_That_ would explain why these people lived beneath a different set of rules. They didn’t even know Lotor’s, so of course they would have to teach Lance something different.

“Do you remember which room is yours, Lance?” Shiro asked. Their footsteps slowed, then stopped, in a hall just like most of the others. Doorways lined either side.

Lance shook his head, but he didn’t feel so bad about failing to answer this question. _His_ room was on a different ship, in a different hallway.

He had no room here. He’d never been there before.

“That’s just fine,” Coran said hastily, before touching the panel beside one of the doorways. It slid open and Lance walked inside when they watched him expectantly. 

“We—we left it the way you did,” Shiro said. “If you want to look through anything. Maybe it’ll help you remember something.”

Glancing back at the way the two crowded in the doorway, Lance’s eyes felt heavy. Maybe he was tired after all.

Coran muttered something about _sleeping in his own bed_ and _jogging the old brain_ and was typing on his datapad again, which at least felt familiar, now.

“We’ll pick right back up in the morning, Lance. Everything will feel a little clearer then,” Coran said. Though he smiled widely, for a moment the back of Lance’s neck prickled. Coran looked how Lance usually felt when he was pretending to be happy. And neither of them looked like _they_ were going to sleep, too.

“We’re so glad to have you back,” Shiro said, which didn’t make any sense at all. “If you need anything during the night, let one of us know, alright? Knock on any of the doors around yours. We’ll give you a real tour in the morning.”

They waited until Lance nodded and then Coran gave that sad smile again.

“Good night, my boy,” Coran said, and then the door slid closed, and Lance was alone.

He assumed they were busy locking the door.

This room was much different from his room. The bed was larger, tucked into a little alcove on one side, and there were _things_ everywhere. Crowded onto a desk, tucked onto shelves, tacked onto the walls—

Shiro had said Lance could look at them, but he wouldn’t. He didn’t need to.

Curiosity wasn’t _good_.

The lights burned bright and white in his room and Lance frowned. He fixed his eyes on the floor, on his bare feet which were beginning to feel the cold of the metal beneath him.

The lights didn’t turn off.

Lance sat on the edge of the bed as he usually did whenever he was in his room and the lights were on and he was waiting. There was more give in the mattress than he’d expected and his hand accidentally brushed against one of the blankets. Blue, like his name had once been, and so soft it made his eyes burned strangely.

His feet were cold.

Lance folded his hands in his lap and waited for the lights to go out, so he could sleep.

He waited.

And waited.

And waited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has it accidentally become my goal to confuse and distress Lance as much as possible? . . . yes.
> 
> More time has passed with them testing/scanning him than Lance realizes because it isn't what he's used to, which is why he's confused he's allowed to sleep already. Well. He would, if he realized he could turn off the lights himself. And even though it looks like they've left poor Lance all alone, Shiro is waiting up outside his door which is _not_ locked.
> 
> Next time we'll get more from Keith's perspective! :D What did you think of this chapter?
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	4. All My Dreams Fulfill

Usually when Keith trained this late, someone came to grab him, to try to force him to get some sleep. But with Lance back, things were almost as unsettled as they’d been in those first days after he’d been lost. There was still fear left over—lingering fear that’d flared back to life when Keith had looked into Lance’s gold-stained eyes. There was less urgency, less panic, because they knew where Lance was—knew he was safe and healthy and alive, but . . .

He wasn’t . . . himself.

So as soon as Coran had cleared the infirmary, asking for them to give Lance as much privacy as they could currently afford, Keith had gone off to hit things. It never made him feel any better, but occupied enough space in his head to help keep his thoughts from circling and spiraling and strangling him, if only for a few minutes.

Bruised and muscles aching, Keith dispatched a final bot before ending the training sequence. Breathing hard, he wanted to go another round but knew he needed to rest. Not because he’d need to spend hours scouring space for a hint of Lance. Those months were behind them. A different sort of work would begin, and Keith would need all his energy for that, too.

It’d been exhausting, missing Lance, and Keith had snapped at the others more often than usual during the search, but in a way it’d brought them all together. Because they needed their Blue Paladin back home.

And because they knew he’d need them, whenever he returned. Whatever his condition would be.

Keith hadn’t thought he wouldn’t remember them. Lance looked so _lost_ , and afraid to acknowledge that confusion because he thought—he thought they’d hurt him. His friends, defenders of the universe, his space family, they’d do something terrible to him just for the crime of asking too many questions. Or breathing the wrong way, or whatever the fuck rules Lotor had taught Lance.

His hands tightened into fists and Keith shook his head, trying to dislodge those thoughts before he was tempted to start up another training sequence. Instead, he hit the showers, then made his way back to his room. He only faltered when he reached the right hallway and saw a figure halfway down, leaned against the wall near Lance’s door.

That at least explained why Shiro hadn’t come looking for him.

“Hey, Shiro.”

“Hey, Keith.” Shiro did a bad impression of looking well-rested enough to stand around in the hallway all night. “You should be asleep.”

“Seems a little hypocritical of you to say,” Keith said, but neither of them currently had the heart to lecture the other to the extent they each probably deserved. Keith nodded toward Lance’s door. “How—how is he?”

Shiro’s frown said enough and Keith suddenly had to grind his teeth together because he wanted nothing more than to take back his question. Part of him just didn’t want to know. Had never considered how much it would hurt, still, when they had Lance back with them.

“I want to say he’s alright because he’s healthy,” Shiro said. “Physically.”

Some of their time spent searching for Lance had included preparing themselves for what the aftermath would be, if Lance experienced captivity similar to Shiro’s. Or if he’d been interrogated. Tortured. Near the end, when they’d realized Haggar had been visiting Lance, they’d tried to guess at what she’d been doing, what experiments she could conduct. More than once Keith had jolted awake from nightmares where Haggar carved Lance apart piece by piece, removing hands, feet, while Keith could only watch. Helpless. 

“But with what Allura said about his quintessence being _wrong_ , the memory loss, the way he’s acting . . . We’re going to have to figure out a way to help him. If he could just learn to trust us . . .” Shiro looked in that moment as tired as he probably felt. “Coran’s already starting working on figuring out how Lance was . . . conditioned. We don’t know what Lotor wanted to do with him, but it seems like everything Lance currently knows to be true was taught to him by Lotor.”

Great. _Great_. Keith should have stayed back in the training room hitting things a little while longer.

He wouldn’t think about what it would be like to be in a strange place, alone and confused and lacking any memories, with only Lotor there to teach you about the world.

He wouldn’t think about how it would feel to have all of that ripped away without explanation, to be stuck with people who assured you they meant no harm and acted nothing like the only people you’d ever known.

To expect pain and orders and not to show your true emotions, not even when you were scared.

“So you just left Lance in there alone, to do what? Worry about what he thinks we’re plotting against him?” Keith asked.

“What—no,” Shiro said quickly. “He was practically falling asleep in the infirmary. Coran didn’t think Lance would admit to being tired, so we decided to call things off for the night. _Everyone_ should be getting some rest.”

“Then why is Lance’s light still on?”

They both stared down at the thin strip of light seeping into the dimmed corridor.

Maybe Lance was afraid of the dark now. The boy who rarely slept without an eyemask, now trying to sleep with every light on in his room.

When Keith’s eyes met Shiro’s, he knew his brother didn’t think the was so simple, either.

“I’ll check on him,” Keith volunteered before Shiro could say anything. “ _You_ go to sleep. Like Coran said, Lance doesn’t need people crowding around him.”

_Strangers_. They were strangers overwhelming him.

“But—”

“I can handle this,” Keith insisted. He had to, because he was afraid _for_ Lance, but also for Shiro. What if Lance said or did something that sparked a memory in Shiro of his own captivity? Lance would think he’d done something wrong; they’d both end up hurting. This was the least Keith could do. “Honestly. And I know to get one of you if I think Lance will need someone else there.”

“Okay,” Shiro agreed, and it showed how tired he was that he even did that much. “But when you leave him, wake one of us up. I don’t—I don’t want—”

_Him to be alone._

Which was fair. Lance had tried to kill all of them.

Keith was more worried that Lance would do something to _himself_ because he’d failed to murder them.

And maybe Shiro was thinking about how much he’d hated loneliness, after he’d escaped the Galra.

Waiting until Shiro was safely inside his room—Keith wouldn’t have put it past him to linger in the hallway, just in case—he pulled in a deep breath. Paused. And knocked.

Ears straining, Keith thought he heard movement in Lance’s room, but there was no answer.

“Lance,” he called out. “I’m coming in, okay?”

Silence.

A silence that felt like endless missing months, spanning incalculable lightyears.

Keith opened the door; Lance hadn’t locked it.

Lance was standing in the center of the room and wouldn’t meet Keith’s eyes. It was eerie, as Keith’s gaze adjusted to the full brightness of the room after the rather dim corridor. Shoulders pulled back, expression blank, Lance stood there like a soldier waiting for orders.

“What are you doing?” Keith asked. It seemed to startle Lance enough to at least convince him to look up.

“Waiting,” Lance said like it was the simplest thing in the world. _Like it was normal_.

“Shiro said you were supposed to be sleeping.”

Something flashed across Lance’s face—quick, crumpling it, creasing in alarm—before the emotion fled.

Maybe Keith _was_ going about this all wrong, because he hadn’t meant to show up just to stress Lance out even more, but just looking at the guy he could tell Lance hadn’t been sleeping. The blanket on his bed was only rumpled a little on the edge like he’d been sitting there, but as they stood there staring at each other, Lance seemed ready to fall over and sleep right there on the floor.

“Do you want to . . . sit?” Keith asked, feeling . . . awkward. He wanted Lance to stop standing there like that, to say something, to crack some infuriating joke that would break this stiffness between them and infuriate Keith and _ignite_ him and make him feel—

Lance looked like he was going to break apart all over again.

“Look,” Keith said. “Remember how we said you could ask whatever questions you wanted? You can say whatever you want, too. You can tell me whatever’s going on with you. We can do that while you stand there, or you can sit down. You can—you can make your own choices here, Lance.”

Because he’d realized the problem with his own wording. Asking Lance what he _wanted_ , when one of the first things Lotor had done probably meant convincing Lance he didn’t _want_ anything at all.

No, that was wrong. Lance wanted to do whatever other people told him to do.

So Keith felt like the one more likely to fall over, when Lance shifted and sat on the edge of the bed.

“I was sitting here,” Lance said. It was startling, to hear his voice and know he was there, physically, and then look into those golden eyes and know mentally Lance was still, mostly . . . elsewhere. “Waiting for the lights to go out.”

“That’s all you need, to sleep?” Keith asked. It was a simple solution—too simple, because it seemed odd that even a Lance who didn’t remember the castleship wouldn’t be able to sort out light switches.

“I sleep when the lights go out,” Lance said quietly. “I wake up when the lights come on.”

He said it like it was matter-of-fact, a law, a way of life. But Keith caught Lance watching him out of the corner of his eye. So he was only saying these things out loud for Keith’s benefit, then. To learn what was different about his life now without necessarily needing to form his thoughts into solid questions.

“That’s another choice you can make for yourself here,” Keith said, striding over to the light switch. “You choose when you want the lights on or off. When you want to sleep. See—”

He flipped the switch, bathing the room in darkness. There was an odd noise, like sheets rustling, and Keith didn’t realize until he flicked the light back on that the noise had been Lance throwing himself prone on the bed.

Pulling himself to his feet, hurriedly, when the lights were on again.

Keith . . . didn’t feel qualified to handle this. Watching Lance, and the way he didn’t stare at the floor, this time. No, _this_ time he eyed the bed instead, like he remembered Keith talking about _choices_ and how he’d wanted to stay on the bed, but now seemed to be at war with himself. Struggling.

Was this supposed to be progress?

Hesitating, hardly breathing, Lance was still a moment longer before he sat again.

_That_ had to be progress. Lance’s hands clutched the blanket beneath him, so tight his knuckles whitened. His golden eyes fixated on Keith, who tried to act nonchalant about the entire thing, because if he pretended Lance making his own decisions wasn’t a big deal . . . maybe he’d start to make _more_.

“Like that,” Lance said, peering down at his toes. Keith realized he was still dressed in the uncomfortable Altean equivalent of a hospital robe, feet bare, and _of course_ Lance hadn’t changed or anything because to him, this room wasn’t his. These things surrounding the two of them belonged to someone else.

“I’m sorry,” Keith said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“You all keep apologizing,” Lance said, and it was just that—a statement of fact, not a question.

“I bet Lotor didn’t do much of that,” Keith said, which was a mistake. It reminded him of how much he wanted to find Lotor and _destroy_ him for what he’d done to Lance.

“No. Of course not. I’m the one who needs improving,” Lance said.

“I don’t know what he told you about yourself, but that’s not really true. We’re going to try to get your memories back—to help you—but in the meantime, you should know you don’t need to be . . . improved. Got it?” Keith asked, satisfied when Lance started to nod. “Now, you wanted to sleep, didn’t you? But you couldn’t because of the lights? Is it alright if I turn them out again?”

“Yes,” Lance said immediately. “Please.”

“Alright,” Keith said, before he asked what he’d really wanted to since he’d walked in and seen Lance standing there, exhausted and confused. “Do you mind if I stay?”

Golden, confused eyes met his. “No one ever stays while I sleep.”

It wasn’t an answer. It wasn’t immediate agreement either, so Lance wasn’t misinterpreting it as an order.

“Maybe that was how Lotor taught you things work, but here, you don’t ever have to be alone if you don’t want to be. I know things have been confusing for you, so maybe we made a mistake leaving you in here on your own.” Keith could only imagine what it would have felt like, coming to get Lance in the morning and realizing he’d remained awake all night, waiting for them. Waiting for the lights to go out. “I’ll be here and if you have any other questions, things you want to tell me about like how your life worked on that other ship, I’ll be here. In case we miss something else, because we don’t know what your expectations are. Right over here.”

He gestured vaguely to an empty space on the floor, basically as far as he could get from Lance’s bed in the already cramped room.

The weight of Lance’s gaze was enormous, dragging, pulling Keith down harder than any artificial gravity.

“Okay,” Lance said, and it startled Keith because he’d never actually expected Lance to agree and sound like he meant it.

He’d planned to resume Shiro’s post outside the door, standing watch through the night.

“Oh! Okay. Uh, great. Yeah. Hang on just a second,” Keith said, and he felt guilty leaving Lance alone while he rushed across the hall to his own room. But if this was going to work, Keith needed his own pillow and blanket, to make things more comfortable between them. He was going to be there _for_ Lance, not to watch or observe him or whatever the hell else Lotor and Haggar usually did.

When Keith reentered Lance’s room, Lance was leaning off his bed, ready to shove to his feet as soon as the door opened, but reluctantly sat back on the mattress when he saw it was only Keith.

“Lights out?” Lance asked, and it was a question, but it was also a decision. Keith would take what he could get.

“Lights out,” Keith confirmed, throwing his things down on the ground before he reached for the light switch. “Good night, Lance. Let me know if you need anything.”

Lance didn’t reply.

Keith shut off the lights.

There was that flurry of activity again over on Lance’s bed, but Keith hoped it wasn’t just his wishful thinking telling him the movement was a little less harried.

Sitting on the ground, he pulled his blanket around him before leaning back against the wall. It wouldn’t hurt to stay up for a little while, to make sure Lance was actually resting.

Just to make sure he could take care of one thing he could fix.

\- - -

There was someone sitting in his room.

_His_ room, which wasn’t the one that was his, beforehand. On a different ship. When he was less confused.

This room didn’t get as dark as the other one did whenever it was time for him to sleep. Soft light emanated from somewhere, just enough for Lance to make out Keith’s outline across the room. Lance had pulled the blanket up to his chin and the pillow was so _soft_ , too nice, and it smelled strange because in a way it made his heart ache but he couldn’t identify any of the scents caught on the bedsheets.

He wanted to sleep.

It looked like Keith was still awake.

Thinking about making his own decisions, it still made Lance’s head hurt something awful. He felt terrible about everything—failing to kill them. Not asking the right questions to learn the rules faster. Not questioning this room, which was warm and nice and made Lance feel . . .

He wasn’t sure what he felt. He didn’t remember feeling this way, before.

But he knew _this_ never would have happened when he was with Lotor.

“Keith?”

“Yeah?” The answer is immediate, and though Lance had been hoping for a response, he gripped his blanket a little tighter.

“You . . .” Lance paused for a moment, throat working while he searched for the right words. And Keith wasn’t impatient with him over that, or telling him to be quiet. He just . . . waited. _Listened_. “You’ll tell me how things work here?”

“Yeah,” Keith said again. “Of course.”

Because Keith didn’t look at Lance the same way the others did. Coran and Shiro watched him like he was going to break if they said the wrong thing to him, and that wasn’t right. Lance was strong. He _had_ to be.

And he’d be _better_ , if there was someone to explain things to him.

“You’ll tell me how I’m . . .” Lance hesitated, looking for the right word. “Wrong?”

“Like with the lights?”

“Yes.”

“Sure,” Keith said, and something loosened in Lance’s chest. Enough for him to close his eyes. “Stick with me tomorrow, and I’ll make sure you know what’s going on. I’ll help you figure things out.”

Lotor had offered something similar, when Lance had first met him. Beforehand, he’d shown Lance what happened when he did something good.

Then he’d shown him what happened if he was . . . bad.

Keith and Coran and Shiro and the other one, Hunk, who’d looked a little sick and ran away—none of them had even punished him. They hadn’t rewarded him either, but Keith could explain things. Lance would figure it out. He’d become a better version of himself.

Whatever they wanted him to be.

Exhaustion won, in the end. Lance slept.

\- - -

Keith woke when the lights turned on. When he moved, joints stiff and aching, Lance watched him from where he stood by the light switch.

There was the strangest look on his face.

A ghost of a smile—a _real_ one, nothing like the manic grin he’d had when they’d found him on one of Lotor’s ships.

“I decided,” Lance said, as if he needed to explain himself. And Keith felt . . . proud, even if Lance didn’t meet his gaze for very long. It didn’t seem like they’d slept long, but maybe Lance didn’t remember ever having the luxury of sleeping in.

Keith wondered what Lance might have dreamt. That strange smile had already left his face and there was something more concerning lingering in his even stranger eyes; it looked like Lance was testing _Keith_.

Probably waiting to see if he’d get angry, about the lights.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and then go grab some food,” Keith said. “I have a feeling you’re going to learn a lot today. Can’t do that on an empty stomach.”

It seemed like one of the easiest things to get Lance to agree to was hopping into the shower in the small bathroom attached to his room. At least he seemed to remember how to handle _that_ for himself.

And Lance looked a little more like himself, like his old self, when he changed into an actual outfit—with Keith studiously turned away and staring at the wall, not just a little alarmed that Lance had started pulling things off of him before Keith had even had the chance to react—even if he wasn’t wearing his usual clothes from Earth. They’d all picked up spare outfits from the planets they’d visited, and Lance looked comfortable enough in one of those, but it was still . . . strange. That he didn’t even think to reach for the jacket hanging up in his closet, kept carefully away from everything else. Protected.

“We—I’m—we aren’t eating here?” Lance asked, staring at the door when Keith reached toward it.

Right. Lance had spent most of his known life living in a cell.

Keith ignored the way that made his heart squeeze.

“No. We’re going to the kitchen,” Keith said. “You remember Hunk?”

Lance nodded. 

“You’ll like whatever he’s made,” Keith said, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the dubious look that creased Lance’s forehead, just for a moment. It seemed like either he was getting more comfortable with expressing emotion, _real_ emotion, or all the change he’d experienced so suddenly was forcing Lance to crack. 

_Or_ , the worst option: Lance was testing his boundaries, waiting for the moment they’d all get angry at him so he’d know the rules of this life a little better.

Still, Keith understood Lance’s skepticism. If Keith had only ever had prison food to eat, he didn’t think he’d believe a meal could be an enjoyable thing, either.

He paused for a minute to show Lance how to open and close the door to his room, making him prove to Keith he could do it, trying to prove to _Lance_ he wouldn’t ever be locked inside. But his gaze withdrew, blank again, as they walked through the corridors to the kitchen.

As Keith had suspected, Hunk was already in there.

“Oh—oh! Hi. Lance. You’re here! And Keith,” Hunk greeted them, spinning from where he’d been standing in front of the oven.

“I get it. I’m nowhere near as exciting,” Keith deadpanned, sitting down on one of the stools pulled up against the high countertop. “Hunk, can you tell Lance about how amazing your food is? He doesn’t really . . . I don’t know how to make him understand.”

They both glanced over toward Lance, who lifted his shoulders slightly. “I’ll eat anything you give me.”

Then he did something curious; pulling out one of the stools, he positioned it much closer to Keith before sitting.

At least it was _something_. At least it was movement, and almost positive, and Lance didn’t look scared.

“I—I don’t want to brag, Keith,” Hunk said hastily. “But, I mean, I do really love cooking. And you—uh, Lance, you’ve really liked my food, in the past. I think. You always said really nice things about it. But I guess you don’t remember any of that because you don’t . . . remember. But I thought—I mean, I guess—I made some of your favorites. I thought even if you couldn’t remember, you’d still have the same taste.”

For a moment, Keith felt terrible, because Hunk looked so _stressed_ , but Lance was nodding. Maybe because he felt like he had to, or just because he was hungry, but even that acknowledgement made Hunk _beam_.

“Have you seen Shiro this morning?” Keith asked as Hunk plated the food—the guy really had gone all out, with a spread far larger than usual for breakfast, and that was saying something for Hunk.

“No, not yet,” Hunk said, setting a plate in front of Lance.

That surprised Keith. It’d been easier than he’d thought it would be, convincing Shiro to take a break the previous night. Maybe he’d finally given into his exhaustion; none of them had really slept well, since they’d lost Lance.

Keith’s neck still ached from where he’d slept huddled up against the wall.

Hunk grabbed a plate and sat with them as well, a polite distance from Lance. But both he and Keith were watching Lance, as he picked up his fork.

Stared at his plate.

Took a bite.

The blank expression stuttered, as shock overwhelmed it, and Lance glanced down at his empty fork in surprise.

“You like it?” Hunk asked.

_What were they feeding you?_ Keith thought.

Lance nodded. 

“Oh, great!” Hunk grinned. “I mean, you look healthy enough, and Coran’s scans agreed, but I hope . . . I mean, I was thinking about your nutrition, and how we can get things back on track. I don’t know if I should start with all the old favorites—”

“Maybe spread them out a little,” Keith suggested. He didn’t say it was because he hoped Lance regained his memory before he had the chance to retry everything he’d been missing out on. 

“That’s a good idea,” Hunk conceded. “And we’ve gotten some new—oh! Lance?”

Keith glanced over to see Lance studiously shoveling the rest of his food into his mouth, hardly chewing, like he was in some kind of twisted contest to see who could down their meal the fastest.

“Hey—” Keith touched Lance’s elbow; Lance immediately dropped his fork.

“No,” Keith said sternly when Lance shifted to stand. Not knowing what Lance was going to do, or where he’d go—what he was even thinking—it was a relief that he stilled immediately. Blue and gold eyes going to Keith’s.

“I don’t have to?” Lance guessed after a moment, like he wanted to say the words before Keith could. Prove that he was learning. His fingers brushed over his fallen fork, but he didn’t lift it from the counter.

“That’s right,” Keith confirmed, letting go of Lance’s elbow. When he didn’t seem like he was going anywhere anytime soon, Keith turned back to his own food. “We aren’t going to take it away from you. Eat at whatever pace you want, but eating that fast, you’ll make yourself sick.”

Maybe he’d said something wrong. Somehow, he’d made a mistake. Because that flash of fear returned in Lance’s expression. 

But when he started to eat again, his movements were slower. Less frantic.

“What?” Keith asked when he realized Hunk was staring at him. “I don’t know, okay? He just started listening to me.”

_Maybe because I’m the angry one. Maybe because some part of him sees the Galra in me and that’s what feels most familiar._

Keith would have given a lot to have Lance snap back at him or to give some kind of asinine quip. To hear horrible pick-up lines; to see _finger guns_ , of all things.

To not always have Lance staring at him with wide, worried eyes.

\- - -

The first time they fed Lance, back when he’d been called Blue, Lotor took away what was leftover because he hadn’t eaten quickly enough.

He was punished for that.

The next time he was given a meal, Lance was sick all over the floor of his room, because he’d eaten too fast.

Punished again. 

_Wasting food. Wasting resources. Wasting Lotor’s time._

Bad. Bad. Bad.

“You understand, don’t you, Blue?” Lotor asked when he came to Lance’s room that night. It was before he really knew how to be good. He hadn’t stood when Lotor walked in, which meant Lotor had to drag him off the bed, sharp nails digging into Lance’s skin.

Blood beaded there and the pain felt sharp and grounding and realer than anything else Lance had ever known.

“All of this is to help you,” Lotor said. “All I’m doing, I’m doing for _you_.”

Lance nodded, because his arm hurt, and his head ached, and he knew Lotor was only there to help him be the best he possibly could. So many hours spent perfecting Lance, and he kept failing. Disappointing.

The syringe glinted in Lotor’s hand, and Lance strained backward but Lotor’s grip didn’t let him get far.

“No,” Lotor snapped sharply. “This is what you’ve earned. You’ll stand here and accept it. If you want a reward—if you want me to be kinder to you—you’ll do better.”

He remembered the reward, burning through his veins, blurring the world into an incomprehensible mix of pleasure and happiness. Pure, sweet, goodness.

He wondered what it meant to be _kinder_.

“I’m sorry,” Lance said when Lotor’s nails dug further into his skin. Stopped trying to move away. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry.”

“See?” Lotor asked, holding the syringe to Lance’s neck. “You’re learning.”

Whenever he was punished, Lance was . . . He didn’t like it.

Most of the time Lance was awake, anyway, he was confused. But Lotor was teaching him, so it wasn’t like Lance needed to bother with thinking for himself.

Whatever they gave him when they punished him, it cut through him like ice. It burned unpleasantly, at first, but then he couldn’t feel his fingers, his toes. His skin. _Anything_. Spreading numbness, until he was forced to his knees, and maybe Lotor was saying something else but the meaning escaped him as words echoed uselessly in his head.

Then the sound faded, too.

Lotor slipped his hand behind Lance’s neck, cradling his head though he couldn’t feel the touch—wouldn’t know if there was another row of shallow wounds growing on his skin there. As he eased Lance back on the ground, his vision flickered, stuttered, clouded, stopped.

He couldn’t move.

Couldn’t hear.

Couldn’t see.

That . . . that was always when the pain started.

It made Lance want to tear through his own skin, to scream until his lungs collapsed, but he could only lie there. White hot agony boiled through him, never-ending _never, never_ and he’d do anything, anything to make it stop—anything to make sure he never needed to feel like that again—

If he hadn’t been such a disappointment—

If he hadn’t failed—

Lance never knew how long it lasted.

That time, that first time, Lance woke with something locked around his jaw, pressing painfully on the bridge of his nose, grinding his teeth together.

Lotor was there in his room, and his smile was so soft—the way his hand brushed against Lance’s forehead, pushing back his hair, softer still.

Maybe that was kindness.

He took Lance’s hands, pulling them up to his own face. His fingers—he could feel again, and the sensation was that much bolder after the temporary loss—touched metal where there should have been skin. Smooth metal, locked around his jaw, and he couldn’t speak—could barely breathe—

“Calm down,” Lotor said, hand returning to Lance’s hair. “The muzzle is only temporary, until you remember to respect what is given to you.”

\- - -

“Lance?”

He glanced up when he heard the blunt one, Keith, say his name. His new name.

_His old name?_

“Are you alright, buddy?” That one was Hunk.

Lance had eaten every bite from the plate Hunk set before him, and felt vaguely sick, but he knew better than to give into that weakness. No wasting resources. He was stronger. Better. He’d been sitting at the counter gripping his fork too hard, staring at his plate for . . . he wasn’t sure how long.

“Yes,” Lance said immediately.

“Don’t feel like you have to lie,” Keith said, and the way he said it, all biting determination made it sound true, but—

“ _Yes_ ,” Lance insisted.

His fork snapped in two, metal crunched between his fingers.

“Holy shit,” Keith breathed, but Lance barely heard him, picking up the twisted pieces of metal and trying—failing—to figure out how to fit them together, to make them whole again. It was impossible.

“I’m sorry,” Lance said, panic flashing through him. Stupid. He’d been stupid, and careless, thinking he could make decisions for himself, sit beside Keith and Hunk and share a meal. Only the first day in this new place and he was already acting like he’d forgotten all his training. But he couldn’t forget. He _couldn’t_. Shoving his stool away from the counter, Lance got to his feet.

That first time Lotor had punished Lance with the muzzle, he’d lasted halfway through the second day of training before fainting. It became one of Lotor’s tests, to make Lance better, to see how long he’d last without food or water or a voice, upping his training schedule until he collapsed.

He didn’t—he didn’t want that, anymore, but—

Lance clasped his hands behind his back, unable to look away from the mess he’d made. The mistake.

“What’s going on in here?” Someone else walked into the kitchen, and Lance’s heart stammered into a faster beat. _No_. He didn’t need more people to see; he just needed Keith to tell him what to do. What they were going to do, to him.

Hunk and Keith hadn’t moved, staring at Lance. _Probably because they were disappointed._

“Lance?”

He glanced up for a minute, just a moment, because all of these strangers were so obsessed with saying his new name and this was the one who’d left, after he’d woken up, the short one with unruly hair and—and _glasses_ , his mind supplied the word even though he wasn’t sure he’d seen such a thing before.

“Pidge, I think you should go,” Keith was saying, but her eyes were locked on Lance’s.

She looked . . . strange.

It took Lance another moment to realize she looked like she was going to cry.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said to her, even though she hadn’t been in the room when Lance had made his mistake. Unless she’d seen, anyway. There were probably cameras here, like there were at home, so they could watch him always and catch him as soon as he made a mistake. 

Oh.

Maybe she’d come to correct him.

His gaze dropped, but her hands were empty. Maybe the punishments were different, here. Maybe he’d have to learn that too. Keith had said—

Lance dug his nails into his palms. It didn’t matter what Keith had said.

“I’m sorry,” Lance said, eyes fixed on his feet. Keith had given him a pair of socks, so his heels were no longer pressed against the freezing metal, but he was just proving he hadn’t deserved to be given even that much. He wondered what they would take away from him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few days later than I wanted to update, BUT this chapter turned out to be 3X as long as the others. I hope you don't mind the length inconsistencies; usually once I get into a story the chapter lengths keep expanding!
> 
> What did you think of this chapter? What do you think poor Lance will do now that he's convinced he's in trouble? :( The Paladins are Stressing Him Out but they're trying their best. Keith's a little freaked out that _he_ is the one Lance will listen to.
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	5. Never Let Me Go

His teeth ground together, clenched so tight he thought they might break. Was that something they would fix if he was good? Would they put him back together again? He was breathing too fast, losing control—being _weak_. Any weakness inside him was never meant to breach the surface.

His lungs burned. Something tight pressed against his jaw.

He was still standing. That meant he hadn’t learned his lesson; not yet.

“I always thought you were smarter than you looked,” Lotor’s voice was light and calculating, the kind of quiet that meant he didn’t care if Lance—if _Blue_ was actually listening. “You’ll adapt. Improve. In the future, we won’t have to go to such silly lengths to teach you.”

His tongue pinched against his teeth and he tried hard not to swallow, because that only sent a curl of agony down his throat that reminded him of how thirsty he was after running for miles. Destroying any obstacles set in his path—targets, gladiator bots. Sparring. Without a sip of water. Without any food.

This _thing_ would stay on him until Lotor said he’d been good enough, earned a meal, and water, and the ability to breathe without feeling like he was gasping for whatever oxygen made it to him through the muzzle.

_Muzzle_. He knew to hate it because of the pain, the way it made his jaw ache and his stomach cramp so harshly he wanted to curl into a ball and disappear, just for a little while.

He knew to hate it because of the way Lotor looked at him now, like Lance _Blue_ was only a lanky, clumsy, unappreciative disappointment.

“You’ll learn,” Lotor said, thumb brushing against Lance’s cheekbone. “But it’ll hurt, first. Go again.”

“—again.”

Lance blinked. Slowly. It felt like every part of him moved too slow.

“Try again, Pidge.” That wasn’t Lotor’s voice. Those weren’t purple lights around him; those were unfamiliar clothes he saw as he stared downward, toes curling in socks that were blue and soft and warm.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Pidge said, and Lance’s shoulders drew inward. _No,_ well, _yes_ , he was scared, because he was allowed to feel that way when he’d done wrong. Pidge was supposed to . . . scare him. “I came here to ask—to see how you were doing. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

_Alright_?

Lance didn’t think he had been _alright_ since before he’d failed and ended up on a new ship with new people and a new room and new rules.

“I didn’t come here to—to hurt you,” Pidge said. “No one here is going to do that.”

Lance flexed his jaw and parted his lips. His gaze flicked to her hands again—empty, still—and then to Hunk, and Keith, neither of whom had left their positions by the counter.

Because . . . they didn’t want to scare him?

“I broke it,” Lance said the words like they were heavy, a confession of some sin that would drag him down to the depths of hell _but what did that even mean and how did he know that word_ and he’d already resigned himself to that fate. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant to; all things Lance did were supposed to be carefully monitored, maintained, perfect.

Pidge was shrugging. His eyes caught on the movement, lingered there. She was so . . . _small_. But he didn’t doubt the strength in her—that she could do something to him, if she wanted to. After all, the only short figure in the hallway where he’d failed had been the one to ultimately subdue him.

“It was an accident,” Pidge said. “I think. I missed that part, actually. We have more forks. It’s no big deal. Actually, if breaking things makes you feel better, you can do that again to another one. I kind of want to see it happen.”

Something else was broken, besides the fork. Something was wrong with Lance, because none of this made any sense. When he met Pidge’s gaze, _she_ seemed afraid. And determined. And curious.

“We don’t do things like that here, Lance,” Keith said, and Lance knew he’d said something similar before, and it sounded like—like he wouldn’t mind saying it again, as many times as it took to get through to him. But it wasn’t supposed to take more than once; Lance had gotten very good at learning quickly. Adapting. These lessons, though, they were . . . 

Opposite.

He couldn’t say they were wrong; the others, Keith and Hunk and Pidge, Shiro and Coran too—they were the ones who determined what was right and wrong for Lance. Now that Lotor was gone.

“Is that what Lotor was doing to you?” Hunk asked. “Punishing you whenever you’d make a mistake?”

“Yes,” Lance said, relieved by how easy it was to answer that question. When his attention shifted, Pidge backed away from him, toward Keith. She was staring at the ruined pieces of metal abandoned on the counter. It made him feel bold enough to make a decision; to talk about what’d been weighing on his mind since he’d woken on that cot in the infirmary. “You haven’t done that for anything, yet.”

Maybe they were missing something—whatever would teach him a lesson best. Coran had asked about what had been in those syringes, his rewards and punishments. Perhaps they needed Lotor to tell them what would be most effective on Lance, and then they’d start. Needed to gather supplies, to know how best to train him, because maybe they hadn’t anticipated Lance coming back with them. “Are you—waiting?”

The three spoke all at once.

Hunk gasped. “For _what_?”

Pidge let out a vehement, “No!”

And Keith, who’d been staring, and thinking, shook his head. “Remember when I said I’d tell you how we do things here?”

Of course Lance remembered. It was the first time someone had ever stayed with him while he’d been sleeping. The first time he’d been able to turn on lights and open doors all because of his own _decisions_ and it was horrible and confusing and Keith had been there, at least, telling him how things worked.

“You can tell us about how things were on Lotor’s ship. Maybe it’ll help you, if you talk about it. But you need to know that whatever he did, we don’t do here. Breaking a fork isn’t going to get you . . . We aren’t . . . No one here is going to hurt you, Lance,” Keith said.

The others had gone quiet, and that was Lance’s fault, too. He’d made them say the same thing too many times.

He didn’t believe them.

“I promise,” Keith said and of course that meant nothing. Lotor broke promises all the time, and that was alright, because they were still friends and Lotor was good and _better_ and—and Lance couldn’t have asked for a better friend than Lotor. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Lance said. He would just have to try not to do anything worse, because then they would know how wrong he was and realize they should have been correcting him all along.

\- - -

Keith hadn’t really wanted Pidge to see this, any of this, and then she’d ended up walking right into Lance having a panic attack in the middle of the kitchen. The castleship was huge but they all ended up sharing the same spaces; it was inevitable they’d run into one another eventually. 

Pidge had already seen Lance _trying to murder her_. She’d been there when he’d woken in the infirmary. But Keith knew from experience there was a large difference between knowing something was wrong and looking Lance in the eye while he was thoroughly convinced you were going to do something horrific to him.

Part of Keith wanted to know. He wanted details about whatever was going on inside Lance’s head. If the only memories Lance had were of the last few months, he could tell them what Lotor had been doing to him while the others had been searching the universe to find their lost Paladin.

Part of Keith used Pidge’s presence as an excuse not to ask Lance anything specific about what he’d been seeing, when Pidge walked into the kitchen and he completely shut down.

Time for a change of scenery, then.

“Let’s start that tour of the ship, Lance,” Keith said. He hated that he felt the need to continuously use Lance’s name, as if he wouldn’t hear or even know they were speaking to him otherwise. 

“Maybe you’ll remember something!” Hunk suggested hopefully.

Keith supposed it wasn’t impossible something on the ship would jog Lance’s memory. But if they could just get through this without freaking him out again, that would be a success.

“I’ll just—” Pidge was inching away and Lance’s expression began to crease. Keith folded his arms over his chest.

“Pidge, if you don’t come with us, he’ll just think it’s because you’re angry at him,” Keith said. Lance didn’t deny it.

If he’d had his memories, maybe this would have felt weirder. 

Sure, Keith and Lance were friends; they made a great team. But that was nothing compared to the trio, Hunk and Lance and Pidge. The three nearly had their own way of communicating, a language of memories shared between them stemming from years of being close.

Keith was still busy working on being . . . personable.

And Lance no longer had any of those memories.

“Fine,” Pidge agreed. “But I’m leading the tour.”

Lance followed Pidge almost too eagerly, listened too intently, stared too long at the hallways they walked through. Like he was memorizing the place. Like he assumed this was it, his one chance at understanding the new ship he was on, and they’d test him about the layout at the end or—

Or hurt him, if he ended up getting lost.

Keith tightened his fists, but tried to keep them hidden by his sides. The last thing he needed was for Lance to misinterpret how Keith wanted to find Lotor and show him even a piece of the pain he’d put Lance through. Maybe he wasn’t great at withholding those violent emotions; maybe it was the Galra in him, the part that maybe Lance could see.

They visited the lounge, which felt strangely empty because there was usually someone in there trying to grab a few minutes to relax between training sessions. Not so much Keith. He didn’t really go for the whole socializing thing.

Which is why it felt so weird that Lance kept looking back at _him_. Staring with those strange eyes.

They made it up to the bridge and _there_ was Shiro, still looking like he could have used a little more sleep—even under the obvious relief that filled him when he saw the four of them, like he’d barely been able to hold himself back instead of scouring the ship to find them. 

Allura was there, too.

“Hello, Lance,” she said, watching him softly, eagerly. He looked toward the princess, but not quite at her. “I am Allura. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make you more comfortable, here. I hope things are not too stressful for you as we attempt to aid you in a swift recovery.”

At first, Keith sensed more than saw Lance’s confusion. _Recovery?_ Lance didn’t think there was anything broken in him. Didn’t realize what he was missing.

“Your memories,” Keith clarified when Lance glanced toward him. “We’re going to help get them back.”

_We’re going to help get you back._

Lance’s brow creased, because why would he remember that he was forgetting something?

It felt like Shiro was staring at Keith as Lance nodded. It felt like Lance still didn’t quite believe them, but at least—well, trusted wasn’t quite the right word for how he currently acted, but Lance would listen to what Keith had to say. One day he’d realize that whatever they were trying had nothing to do with hurting him. Making him _better_ , or whatever.

“If you have a few varga to spare this afternoon, I’d like to sit down and have another chat with you,” Coran said, emphasizing false eagerness. Whatever the conversation would center around wouldn’t be good. “To understand your past few months a little better.”

Lance nodded almost before Coran stopped speaking. Then—

“I want Keith to come, too.” The words were _almost_ stern, _almost_ bold, before Lance faltered. “If I—if he could—if I can decide—”

“Of course!” Coran said, and some of that happiness seemed a little less forced. Because Lance was speaking? Or trying to decide for himself? Because it would help not to have to sit alone with whatever terrible stories would spill from Lance without him realizing that the things that had been done to him weren’t _normal_? “Whatever would make you most comfortable, my boy.”

And Keith, he couldn’t really say how he felt. Of course he would be there for Lance—of course he’d try to help. It was the least he could do, and it felt like the sort of thing a friend would do, except in this case it should have been Pidge or Hunk who’d be there by Lance’s side. Shiro, because he was the one who’d understand the best, what Lance had gone through. Even Allura, who was strong and steady and Lance hadn’t even made a comment about how beautiful she was which felt _really fucking weird_. Lance was being . . . as quiet as Keith usually was, when he wasn’t angry, or strategizing, or mid-battle.

He had to stop guessing at why Lance had picked _him_ , and continued to choose him. It was going to drive him insane. It only proved how different this Lance was versus one who remembered everything.

They moved on to the upside-down pool, which they thought might entertain Lance but which they really got no reaction to. Maybe he’d seen weirder on Lotor’s ship.

Then Pidge had wanted to take a detour to show Lance the gaming setup she had in her room.

No reaction.

The observation decks where they’d usually find Lance wandering—or, more likely, napping—during his free time.

No reaction.

They went to the training rooms.

In retrospect, Keith should have known that was a terrible idea.

But he’d been distracted, because Lance had fallen back to walk beside him, and some of the tension had escaped his expression. That, or Lance had just gotten better at hiding how he felt around all of them, now.

They stopped where they usually sparred and trained together, with rooms nearby to use for simulations and training sequences, equipment to help them build strength or speed. When Pidge turned, Lance was already holding out his hands. Not like he was trying to reach out to one of them—that would have . . . Keith would have been floored to see that. 

It was so strange to see a Lance who wasn’t casually slinging an arm around Hunk or prodding Pidge’s glasses up the bridge of her nose. Sticking his finger in Keith’s face, their foreheads nearly touching as Lance issued some challenge.

No, Lance looked expectant, waiting for Pidge to deposit something into Lance’s waiting palms.

“What?” Pidge blinked, her own hand lifting before she seemed to think better or taking one of Lance’s. “I don’t . . .”

Her voice trailed away, so Lance turned to Hunk instead, though his gaze slid quietly over toward Keith.

“Do you recognize something about this place?” Hunk asked—uneasy, rather than eager. The unnatural way Lance held himself—and acted, and spoke—was more than enough to be disconcerting.

“I’ve never been here before,” Lance said. It didn’t really sound like an answer at first, which made Keith suspicious, until he realized maybe he was getting used to Lance’s half-truths. Lance felt like he couldn’t lie, but didn’t think they really wanted him to explain himself.

He didn’t recognize the room. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t realize what it was _for_. Lance wasn’t oblivious.

Well, he’d used to be—sort of—not in any way that was really important. Oblivious when it came to invading Keith’s personal space, maybe, not when it came to saving the universe.

“We’re just showing you around the ship, Lance,” Keith said. “Not expecting you to do anything.”

He kept the wording vague, uncertain of what might set him off. They didn’t need a repeat of the panic that’d filled Lance in the kitchen. No need to mention training, or fighting, or anything else Lotor might have used to occupy hours and hours and _hours_ of Lance’s time.

Lance’s hands fell, hanging limp by his sides. He was so _still_.

“A tour,” Lance said, as if he needed to prove he remembered. Pidge was already nodding; of course she’d get it. Keith had been hoping she and Hunk would pick up on things, when it came to figuring out this Lance.

“Lotor had you train a lot, didn’t he?” Pidge asked. Her gaze dipped, fixed on Lance’s hands that had been waiting for a weapon.

What had Lotor forced Lance to use while he hadn’t had his bayard?

“Yes,” Lance said, seeming for a moment like he was going to shrug. Like there was that glimmer of something beneath the surface Keith was beginning to see poke free sometimes, where Lance was thinking _What a terrible question_ but didn’t quite feel ready to voice that yet. It was there, though, lurking in the edges of his expression. “Most of the time.”

“Every day?” Hunk asked. It looked like he was thinking back to those missing months, the numbered days they’d missed Lance—wondering how much time had passed between them losing him, and when Lance had lost his memory. And then Lotor had done all of this to him, afterward.

“Every day.”

Pidge fidgeted, shifted as if she could block their view of the simulation rooms with her short frame. “Maybe we should—”

“I was good at it,” Lance said suddenly, as if their questioning—and failure to arm him—meant they didn’t trust his skills. “I _am_ good at it. Fighting. I lost against all of you because I hadn’t factored in the difference between facing so many living opponents with varying weaponry and unknown fighting styles versus training against the gladiators.”

They were back to that, then. Lance, angry at himself because he hadn’t managed to murder all of them. Keith’s stomach tied itself in knots because he was sure that, given a few extra chances and more warning, Lance . . . probably would have been able to take down at least a few of them.

They were lucky things hadn’t gone worse.

He told himself their Lance—uh, Voltron’s Lance—would be happy, relieved, when he realized he hadn’t really managed to hurt any of them during his rescue.

“We know that,” Keith said, feeling oddly flustered when the three looked over at him. “It’s a good thing that you failed, or whatever you want to call it, Lance. Did you even like fighting for Lotor?”

Those gold-tinged eyes fluttered with confusion. Keith felt bad, or at least part of him did, for constantly turning Lance’s thought process upside-down. First asking about what he _wanted_. Now wanting to know what he _liked_. Forcing Lance to have opinions—probably the exact opposite of Lotor’s training.

_Good_. Keith tried to smother the flash of frustrated indignation that curled in him, made him want to hit something, to set a _terrible_ example in front of Lance. He wanted to yell and _scream_ and do something reckless like take Red and hunt through space for Lotor on his own so he could tear him apart for how small and lost he’d made Lance look.

Lance’s lips parted.

“Don’t just say whatever you think we want to hear,” Keith snapped.

Lance’s mouth shut.

Then his jaw clenched tight—too tight—and they all flinched when the lights overhead flashed red, an alarm echoing through the castleship.

_No_. Keith stared at Lance, his tensed muscles, the look on his face that said he thought maybe all the noise was his fault. They were supposed to be safe, far enough out of the way that no one would be able to find them while they—

While Lance—

“Paladins!” Allura’s voice echoed over the comm system. “To your Lions! Our sensors have picked up—”

Keith saw the others were hesitating, too, staring at Lance like they didn’t even know what to do with him.

Blue had let Allura fly her a few times out of desperation while they were trying anything possible to catch word of Lance. It wasn’t like they could expect Lance to fight with them—least of all when he had this reaction to just the training room. But could they trust him on his own?

Allura was still on the comms.

Pidge and Hunk were looking at Keith.

“Okay,” Keith said, and he reached for Lance’s elbow and had it in hand before he realized he probably shouldn’t have been touching him. But Lance didn’t complain, allowing himself to be led out into the hallway. The door to the training room shut behind the four of them with a solid enough sound; Keith wasn’t leaving him in there.

“Get to your Lions,” Keith told Pidge and Hunk. They hesitated a moment longer, but all those lights and sirens seemed a _little_ more urgent now—especially because Allura was . . . saying something about Blue.

Lance’s gaze shifted between his own feet, and Keith.

“Okay,” Keith said again, releasing his grip on Lance though somehow that only made him feel more tense. “Lance. I’ve got to—we’ve got to go. Just don’t go back in there, okay? You can go to your room, if you remember—or maybe to the bridge? Coran will be there. You could stay with him. You can choose whatever you want, okay? Just—just be careful.”

Lance’s nod was sharp. It made Keith want to grab him again, but he needed to go.

“I’m sorry,” Keith said, and there was just enough time to see Lance’s expression scrunch—confused all over again about why they all kept apologizing to him so much—before Keith had to turn his back on Lance, and leave.

\- - -

Sometimes Lotor told Lance to be careful after he’d just been healed from one of his more life-threatening injuries. Because if he injured himself again, it would just be a waste of Lotor’s time.

To be careful while he was being punished, because there was a chance he could make it worse for himself.

Keith was gone.

Keith and Hunk and Pidge were gone.

Lance peered upward, toward the flashing lights. _Flashing lights and sirens and Lotor pulling him out of his room, putting a gun in his hands, giving him orders._

Those lights had been purple; the sirens screeched differently. There’d been no echoing voices, no Allura shouting something desperate—something about staying behind?

There’d been no . . . choices.

Lance was beginning to dislike Keith, because he was always handing him those.

Lance wasn’t _supposed_ to dislike anyone. Being around these people, it felt like it was breaking him apart. They made his head hurt.

Glancing over his shoulder, he realized he did remember the way to his room which wasn’t quite _his_. The way to the bridge would be simple as well; Coran sounded like he would be too busy to bother Lance with questions, but—

But—

_Bother_. The word rattled around in Lance’s mind. _Bothered_ wasn’t something Lance was meant to be, either.

Probably for the best if he avoided the bridge, then. It would only lead to more confusing thoughts. Allura and Coran were confusing. Pidge, confusing, because she brought him to the training room but didn’t want him to train. Hunk, confusing, because he gave Lance food and then expected them to eat together like that was normal.

Shiro was confusing. He looked at Lance like they were supposed to be able to understand each other best.

But Keith—

Lance glanced down the hall Keith and the others had disappeared down. They hadn’t gone any further during their tour; Lance didn’t know what was down there. Had nothing to compare it to, against the other ship. His old home.

Keith wasn’t confusing.

He told Lance what was going on and when to stop worrying and he promised Lance wasn’t going to be hurt and that seemed like a lie but it sounded so earnest when it came from Keith.

So Lance started down the hall after them. 

He didn’t run, and only made it a few feet before he froze again. Glanced over his shoulder, back toward the training room. Keith had said not to go back in there; he’d also said he wouldn’t order Lance around.

It felt good, familiar, to know at least one thing he wasn’t supposed to do.

But the alarms were still flashing _screeching and his door opened, Lotor filling the doorway_ so, obviously, something had gone wrong. There would be weapons in that training room. Lance was meant to help best with a weapon in his hand.

His empty fingers curled into fists.

No. Keith had said not to go back in there, so Lance would continue empty-handed.

These halls seemed emptier; it took Lance a moment to realize it was because there were less doorways. Like there was something massive waiting on the other side of one of these walls. The shouting over the intercom had faded, or stopped, and then there were double-doors off to the left—massive, white, gleaming—that slid open as soon as Lance stepped near them.

He wondered if this was where the others had gone.

He stepped through anyway.

The space was _massive_ , larger than anything Lance had ever seen. _Anything he remembered seeing_. Most of it was empty, echoing, without even his footsteps calling back to him because they were muffled by those soft blue socks. He’d seen the hanger on Lotor’s ship. There’d been tours through that home, too, though they’d been more spread out, as if Lance couldn’t be trusted to see everything on the ship all at once. The day they’d made it to the hanger, Lance had stared out over the rows of Galra fighters and stayed close to Lotor’s side, like he was supposed to. Blinked with surprise, when Lotor asked Lance if he would fly one of those ships.

_“Piloting has not been part of my training,” Lance had said because he couldn’t believe Lotor had overlooked something like that, if it’d been something he wanted Lance to do._

_“You don’t know how to fly a ship?” Lotor asked, and when Lance shook his head, Lotor had laughed, and laughed. Lance had been worse at masking his confusion then but Lotor hadn’t even seemed to mind._

_He’d seemed pleased._

Lance had never flown before, but his hands twitched by his sides. There weren’t any fighters in the hanger; there was nothing familiar about the white chrome and blue lights, the particle barrier up and surrounding a massive ship, if he could call it that.

_Lion_ his mind supplied. He didn’t quite know what a lion was, but he knew that was what he wanted to call the strangely shaped ship sitting there, alone.

It was the most brilliant shade of blue.

It matched his socks.

Lance had already started to cross the floor before he realized it; the space was large enough that a few footsteps didn’t bring him very far. There were other openings in the room he could see now, other doorways and something that looked like hatches in the ceiling, which was vaguely confusing.

It was cold in there, freezing, and Lance wanted to shiver but he was trying to be stronger than that. Still, he was thankful for his socks and the strange clothes Keith had given him to change into.

_Keith_. Maybe Keith was in another ship, somewhere?

Lance stopped in front of the particle barrier. The energy it emitted was enough to lift the hair on the back of his neck. Some technological side effect.

They hadn’t told him not to touch anything. They hadn’t been angry about the fork he’d broken earlier. They’d let him make choices, however foolish that was.

Lance lifted his hand to place it on the barrier, just as he’d done with the light switch in his room. Making a choice.

The barrier fell away as soon as his fingertips touched it, sending a little jolt singing through his skin. It felt . . . good. Like a ghost of what had once been injected in his veins, whenever he’d been rewarded.

It felt like he was being watched.

Tilting his head back, Lance eyed the silent Lion.

“Lance!” the voice broke through—well, it felt like it broke _something_ , but it wasn’t as if Lance had been in the midst of a conversation. He’d just been . . . standing there. How long had he been standing there? “I see you on the hanger’s cameras so I—I just—I’m coming down to where you are.”

It was Allura. She sounded . . . afraid. “Please don’t go anywhere, Lance. I’ll be there in just a few tics. Coran could you—” Lance glanced upward as the noise muffled, but the ceiling was too high for him to even see the comms system. “I’ll be right down, Lance!”

Did she think he was going somewhere?

He didn’t even know how to fly.

It felt like heavier eyes watched him than Allura or Coran. The tingling feeling from the particle barrier hadn’t gone away; if anything, it’d gotten worse.

Maybe they wouldn’t let him back into the hanger. Maybe they’d forgotten to tell Lance this was a space he wasn’t meant to visit. He’d never get a chance to see the ships again—

Ship. Singular. _Lion_.

Technically, he wasn’t going anywhere, if he remained in the same room, even if he took a few steps closer to the Lion. Huge enough that even its paws seemed designed to make Lance feel insignificant in comparison.

The metal looked a little dingy, a little rough, as if it’d been through a lot. Battled and battered through space. Lance lifted his hand.

Maybe it would feel the same as the particle barrier had. Or . . . better.

He was alone.

Maybe his fingertips trembled, a little.

His hand pressed against the metal paw.

It didn’t feel the same.

There was a moment—a flash, a flutter, where all Lance could think was _Blue_ , which was confusing because it felt like a name and right and good but not his—and then it all went wrong.

Like his skin hitting metal had lit a fuse, Lance was knocked backward. _Blasted_ backward. Knocked off his feet before he knew what had hit him—and nothing had, nothing physical anyway, but it didn’t matter because he was hurtling back and back and back and the wall which had been so far away was suddenly too close.

His thoughts, his panic, like flickering flames that ate away at him inside, consuming and growing and hurting _it hurt it hurt it_ —

Lance hit the wall, felt metal crumple, felt _pain_.

Had they—were they—was this a punishment?

_It hurt it hurt it hurt_ and he couldn’t feel anything _and he felt too much_ and maybe he was hitting the ground and maybe someone was speaking to him and _something was inside his head_ and then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you thought Lance was a mess before :D
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter! I'm so surprised by how many of you like this fic so far and I hope you continue to enjoy. Thank you for your support!
> 
> The last chapter update might come in two weeks rather than one due to personal reasons, but I promise it'll be worth the wait :D
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	6. Through a Summer Breeze

“You’re alright.”

His skin stung, hummed, shivered alongside his heartbeat.

“I’m here.”

He wasn’t alone and he thought that was fine, even if he didn’t really know what was happening.

Lance opened his eyes and realized Allura sat next to him. Beneath him, the infirmary cot was uncomfortable against his too-sensitive skin. He was back in the med bay; two visits in as many days. Allura sat in a chair pulled up alongside him and he realized belatedly that she was tightly gripping his hand.

He didn’t mind.

It meant he probably hadn’t done anything wrong.

“How are you feeling?” Allura asked. Her voice was stiff, as if that wasn’t quite the question she wanted to ask. Her expression twitched when Lance’s gaze met hers.

“Strange,” Lance admitted, because honesty was the only option. He didn’t feel like himself. He didn’t feel bad, either—not like he’d been punished or anything like that. His skin felt . . . wrong. Not _bad_.

“Do you know who I am?” Allura asked and there it was—her uncertainty, in the twitch of her lips. The way she gripped him a little tighter.

“Yes,” Lance answered because he had a good memory, learned well. “Allura. I met you this morning.”

There was a pause where her grip on his hand slowly loosened.

“Maybe not this morning,” Lance admitted. “I don’t know how long I’ve been . . . asleep.”

“Unconscious,” Allura corrected. 

That wasn’t unusual. Most of the time, Haggar hadn’t really wanted Lance awake. That interfered too much with any experimentation she wanted to do. He’d passed out during tests and trials—during training, pushing himself to his limits. When he was in pain, after Lotor had given him exactly what he deserved.

“Did I fail?” Lance asked, and there was another strange thing—not the buzz in his skin, but something lurking at the back of his mind. Curled, waiting to spring, spreading, something that said _No_.

“Fail? Fail what?” Allura asked, almost before she shook her head. “You were injured after you went into the Lions’ hanger. Your encounter with the Blue Lion, it set something off.”

_Set me off_ , Lance thought, and it felt true though he didn’t know why he would have known that, or how, and it didn’t worry him as much as it should have.

Lotor was supposed to be the one to teach him things. And on this new ship, Keith.

“The way your quintessence has been changed, when it interacted with the Blue Lion’s, you both . . . reacted,” Allura said. “But you’re alright. You’ve recovered. We’ll worry about the details later.”

Lance thought he really wanted to worry about that right now. Maybe the dissent lingered on his face for too long, because Allura seemed surprised by something she saw in his expression.

“I didn’t do something wrong?” Lance asked carefully. _You can ask whatever questions you want_.

Something made him think that was true. _Right_. He wanted to shake his head; it ached too terribly to think about moving.

“No,” Allura said so quickly she might have shouted it, had she not been seated by him while he recovered from . . . something. “Of course not, Lance. Your injuries were in no way your fault. We didn’t explicitly tell you not to go into the hanger, and we didn’t think Blue . . . Well, the others should return shortly. One of our alarms went off, so they went to check—rather urgent, but they handled it well, and—”

Lance, suddenly, no longer wanted to listen, which was very bad because that was the first thing he’d been taught to do.

_Blue_. She’d mentioned Blue. Not _him_ , the Blue he’d been before they called him Lance, the Blue who’d followed and failed Lotor, who’d been made better. She said Blue, and Lance knew Allura was talking about the Lion.

_His_ Lion. Which was wrong to think because nothing was _his_ , not even the things in the room where Keith had stayed with him, not the clothes they’d given him to wear or the food he ate or the bed he’d slept on.

But Blue was something different. He could feel that in his chest, in his mind, so strong a certainty it almost hurt.

“Allura?”

It took Lance one horrified moment to realize he’d interrupted her. His shoulders pressed back against the pillows behind him, but she only leaned closer as if to hear him better. She didn’t seem to mind; something reminded him not to be afraid.

“Are you experiencing pain?” Allura asked.

Not like Haggar would have, to better catalogue his reactions to her tests.

Not like Lotor would have, to determine if his punishment had been suitably horrific.

Like she . . . cared.

He realized he’d bitten the inside of his cheek, hard enough to draw blood. He realized he believed she wasn’t going to hurt him and it was because he hadn’t come to that conclusion alone.

“There’s someone inside my head,” Lance said, and he realized the words trembled as if he was worried, but Allura smiled so softly. Like she believed him.

\- - -

Keith had expected so much worse when he’d heard Coran’s reports over their comms. Leaving Lance had been a mistake, but there’d been the proximity alarm going off and the threat of something unknown hovering out there beyond the Castleship.

_Blue won’t allow Allura to pilot._

_Lance is in the Lions’ hanger._

_Something happened. Something exploded. Lance is unresponsive. Lance is down._

They should never have left, because there’d been nothing waiting to attack Keith and the others, anyway. A false alarm. Debris, drifting too close. Still, they’d needed to scout out the situation, just in case. It was good to be cautious; good to check. But they’d all been gone for too long.

Lance looked faded in the med bay as if something had been sapped from him, drained from his veins. Laid back against the pillows tucked onto his infirmary cot like they were the only thing keeping Lance from slipping sideways and back into unconsciousness. He was holding Allura’s hand and they were talking quietly. 

A . . . normal conversation.

She was telling him about Blue and how she’d temporarily been the Lion’s pilot. And Lance—he was asking questions. Voice too low, too heavy, words picked out too carefully—but they were there.

He seemed to be holding on as tight to Allura as she was to him. Keith’s gaze skittered away.

He’d seen the huge dent in the hanger wall, when he’d exited Red. They—he—hadn’t even been gone long. Long enough to patrol and see and search and _know_ that Lotor hadn’t come after them, that no one was going to try to take Lance away again. 

There’d been nothing out there but some fucking debris from an unknown battle none of them had been a part of, and none of them would ever know the outcome, and in that handful of minutes, that stretch of time that hadn’t even amounted to an hour, Lance had been hurt.

He’d trusted Keith. But Keith hadn’t been there to keep him safe.

Judging from the dent in the hanger wall, Lance should have been dead.

There hadn’t even been any blood.

Lance didn’t even look bruised.

Instead he was shifting, digging his heels into the mattress to pull himself further upright, to talk to them. As if Allura had somehow cracked open a piece of him that was now . . . _chatty_.

Keith didn’t know why he felt like he was on the edge of something, stomach swooping like he was about to fall.

They were fine. He was fine. Lance was . . . alive.

“There’s someone inside my head,” Lance said almost pleasantly when Pidge approached the other side of his cot. When he didn’t react otherwise, she wrapped her fingers around his free hand.

“There is?” Pidge asked, voice containing the right amount of surprise and awe. Keith realized it was the kind of voice people usually used around children when they wanted to appease them, and keep them unafraid.

“Yes.” Lance’s gaze slid away from her, to Hunk, to Shiro, and then to Keith. “She says hello.”

They were all quiet for a moment. Quiet which seemed impossible when there were six of them packed in there tightly—four still in armor, one denied a Lion, one laid out on a cot.

Keith didn’t know if he was meant to say something in response to Lance’s stare.

“She didn’t really,” Lance said after a moment—quiet, to match the mood of the infirmary. “I just thought you all might stop looking at me like that if I said so.”

_What?_

Lance’s lips twitched.

Keith felt like he was back in the hanger staring at the impression Lance’s _entire fucking body_ had left in the metal. Like his brain didn’t know how to work, move forward, compute. It’d already been hard enough to understand Lance—the one they’d gotten back, one who didn’t remember them, who only knew Lotor. 

Something in him had changed, again. And maybe Keith wouldn’t figure it out this time, how to get through to him.

Maybe Lance wouldn’t think to trust him anymore.

Allura patted Lance’s hand. 

“What did we miss here?” Shiro asked carefully. His words seemed to break through the stillness, enough for Pidge’s shoulders to slump, for Hunk to exhale.

“I believe the Blue Lion decided to shut me out because she knows we now have Lance back with us. After all, he was always her preferred Paladin,” Allura said and Keith knew—and immediately felt guilty that they didn’t have time to think about her feelings in all of this—she was pushing away how much that must have hurt her. “She did not allow me past her particle barrier. However, when Lance found his way to the hanger, the Blue Lion did much more than allow him close. I believe she tried to help heal his quintessence.”

“Heal it?” Hunk asked, leaning over, hands clutched together. But there were no physical wounds for them to examine for healing; even the Lance they’d rescued had been in relatively good shape.

Seemingly.

On the outside.

Keith wanted to stab something. Someone.

“Coran’s scans have proven that Lance’s quintessence is . . . different. Manipulated, most probably. I don’t doubt that the same thing keeping Lance’s memories from him also hindered his ability to connect to the Blue Lion. So it seems she . . . pushed through that barrier in his mind. In a way,” Allura said.

“And nearly killed him,” Keith scowled toward the floor, ignoring those that turned toward him.

“I don’t think I was dying,” Lance said quickly. There was a bit of the familiar Lance back, the broken one, and Keith _hated_ that he was getting used to this. Lance, afraid because he thought they’d do something to him if they thought he was showing any weakness.

“Does that mean Lance should be able to remember us?” Shiro asked, but even before he finished asking the question, Allura shook her head.

“I do not think Lance’s memories from before his capture have returned. Not yet,” Allura said, pressing her lips together as if to hold back a sigh. “Coran will provide a better assessment, I am certain, once he—”

“Coran will do better than that!”

Keith winced as Coran slid into the infirmary—actually slid, probably going for some kind of triumphant pose and really ending up almost toppling over and onto Lance, who looked mildly excited about the whole thing.

“I, er, well—anyway! The bridge is secured, Princess. All is well. Sorry about that little scare there earlier, but it’s good to know our alarms work so well! Better safe than at the bottom of a warbling yefner is what I always say!” Coran grinned. Pidge glanced over her shoulder, sharing a confused look with Keith. “Anyway, you Paladins should get out of that uncomfortable armor. Princess, will you oversee the bridge for a few ticks? I’ll get a good look at what’s going on in that brain of Lance’s!”

He wriggled his hands a little too eagerly. Even Lance began to lean backward, pressing against the pillows propping him upright.

He wasn’t looking to Keith anymore. He had Blue, and the others, and Coran to look after him.

Hunk was first out of the room, speaking quietly to Shiro about something, and then Allura released Lance’s hand, promising to visit with him later. Pidge, passing Keith, gave him the strangest look—a little smirk that made his shoulders hunch too close to his ears. 

“Keith can stay,” Lance said, though the words ended up turning upward at the end like question marks had infiltrated his resolve.

“Of course, my boy!” Coran smiled. “Another pair of hands around to help me with our tests. Keith, come now, out of that armor. That’s much too restrictive for the amount of flexibility you’ll need if you’re going to help.”

Keith felt sort of . . . odd. Deflated, because Lance hadn’t regained his memories. But . . . good. Glad. That even a Lance who’d slammed his head into solid metal and had a space Lion walking through his damaged mind would want him there. Want to trust him.

_What was that Coran had said about flexibility?_

\- - -

Haggar was horrible to look at. Lance had only known two people in his life, her and Lotor, and he knew he preferred to look at nothing rather than face her.

She made him feel weak, like he’d been torn and would fall to pieces if she picked at the wrong seams holding him together. The light she shone into his face made his eyes water and twitch. He’d wanted to be better, stronger, but moments like this reminded him there were still some parts of his body he didn’t have the best control over. For instance, he couldn’t keep himself from involuntarily crying, a tear slipping down his temple. It felt like a betrayal.

Lance wanted to wipe it away, but it’d been so long since they’d had to use restraints in Haggar’s lab and he didn’t want to go back to that. Lotor had been so angry when Lance misbehaved during her experiments. Their friendship had turned . . . complicated.

So he only blinked, and stared up toward the light again.

“What color are your eyes?” Haggar asked. Her voice scratched and scraped; it sounded amused like it always did when she questioned Lance because she usually already knew the answer. Everything with her was a test; everything gave him the chance to fail.

Lance tried. He thought and focused and worked his way back through the days spent stretched out on lab tables and training with Lotor and in his room sitting and waiting and eating. He knew his skin was brown and had a good idea of how tall he was. Ten fingers. Ten toes. If he strained his neck, he could see a strange scar mottling the skin on his back, but he didn’t remember how it’d gotten there.

He knew his hair was brown. Lotor had ripped out some of it before while throwing Lance back into his room, when he’d deserved it.

He knew he bled red.

Lance didn’t know what he looked like, not really. He didn’t think he’d recognize his own face.

“I don’t know,” Lance said when Haggar looked ready to claw the answer out of him.

She smiled. Her smile always promised horrible things, but that didn’t matter, because Lotor said that Lance needed to listen to her because she was making him better.

“Good,” Haggar said. “Though it would have been entertaining if you would notice the difference.”

She handed him a little glass—familiar, because she’d started having him drink the golden liquid on days where he hadn’t quite been bad, but hadn’t been good enough to receive a reward, either. So Lance didn’t mind it, not when it meant he wouldn’t exactly feel pain.

The drink wasn’t pleasant. It didn’t hurt.

Tipping the cool glass against his lips, Lance swallowed the liquid quickly. It burned, racing down his throat to pool in his stomach. Haggar took the empty glass from him; he hated the way she stared into his eyes, but he couldn’t look away. Not unless she told him to.

It felt like he was too . . . full. Not like he’d eaten too much; Lotor made sure Lance never had that problem anymore. Like he needed to move, to shake restless energy from his limbs. Like his veins were overflowing and if he opened his mouth, blood would pour free, spilling from him—a relief—because if something didn’t _leave_ he would—he’d—

The liquid crawled toward the aches left behind by training. Bruises when he’d moved too slowly. Cuts from his own weaponry, or ill-fitting armor, or from Lotor or the sentries or Haggar. Any lingering injuries would be healed.

That only ever bought Lance a moment of relief.

It was like the liquid he drank searched desperately for somewhere else to go—something else to fix. It settled in his bones, making him stronger. In his muscles, the tissue and tendons and sinew. It made his eyes burn just as much as the overbearing lights.

Lance wanted to scream, or puke, or both. He wanted it to stop, and then it did—it always did. A few seconds or minutes later—it didn’t matter, when the problem was inside of him—the unsettling wrongness of it all dissipated. Left his limbs trembling, skin buzzing.

Left him stronger.

It made his head ache and made it harder to remember things, for a little while, but Haggar and Lotor never seemed angry about that.

Haggar lifted a knife.

Lance stared at the blade, felt like it took an eternity for him just to blink.

“Hold still,” Haggar said. “I think I like this dosage. Of course, we must test it.”

Her knife sliced into his skin; Lance held still, pretending he didn’t feel the pain. Pretending it didn’t hurt when his skin knit itself back together. Pretending he didn’t mind when Haggar cut into him again and again and again.

\- - -

“Keith.” Lance was staring up toward him—watching Keith, even if he must have appeared upside-down from that angle. Coran had none too gently ‘suggested’ Keith stand by the top of the cot so he could better maneuver the strange and slightly alarming devices he’d pulled out to scan Lance and most importantly, his quintessence.

Thankfully they’d already finished the ominous _flexible_ part.

“Lance.” Keith didn’t think Lance’s eyes had turned any less gold, but there was something different in his expression. Tension that’d disappeared—probably because Blue was there, comforting him. As she always should have been. “You feeling alright?”

He lay on the cot without budging, but Lance held himself stiffly as if he expected Coran’s inspection to hurt. Or for them to get angry if Lance shifted and bungled some kind of result.

“Yes,” Lance said as if there’d never been another option. “Blue says none of you would ever hurt me like Lotor. I can feel that she’s speaking the truth.”

Connections with the Lions were usually . . . complicated. With Keith, Red was all fire and blazing action with no thought for consequences. Hotheaded emotion and strong confidence. She didn’t really speak to him through words, not really—but they were still always able to understand each other. 

As Coran shifted his device, positioning it over Lance, Keith realized he’d never really asked anyone else how their Lions felt, inside their heads. Was Black’s presence as commanding as Shiro’s? Green, a mess of complex calculations, like Pidge? Yellow, strong but comforting, like Hunk?

And Blue . . . 

Lance was many things, so maybe Blue was, too.

“It’s how I felt with you,” Lance said in the moment Keith realized he’d been staring down at Lance for too long without saying anything. “Before I found her, I knew I’d always get the truth from you.”

The machine beeped. From the corner of his eye, Keith could feel Coran staring, but he absolutely refused to look over. To look _away_.

“Blue says it’s because we’re . . . similar,” Lance said. There was a catch in his voice, a certain hesitation that made it seem like that wasn’t quite the word he wanted to use, but he’d vaulted over the chasm left by that loss and struggled forward with this replacement. 

“Maybe there’s something wrong in the translation there,” Keith said. There was a twinge in his neck from leaning forward, peering downward, but it was a good kind of pain because Lance didn’t look scared. “We aren’t _similar_. We weren’t before. We really aren’t, now. You’re . . .”

It was frustrating, trying to come up for words for _Lance_ that the boy himself would comprehend, and then there was the way Lance’s lips were twitching, shifting like he was going to—like he was—

Yes. He was smirking, like he knew exactly what Keith was struggling over. It made Keith flush too hot.

“Oh!” Coran let out the little exclamation just as Keith was opening his mouth to tell off Lance for looking so _pleased_ with himself that he’d left Keith flustered.

“Oh?” Keith and Lance’s voices intermingled, and their staring contest broken off with no winner as their attention shifted to Coran.

“Oh!” Coran said again, as if in agreement, shifting the machine to the side. He made as if to lounge against it casually, but as soon as his elbow landed on it, the entire thing started rolling away from him. Keith stopped it with his foot.

“Yes! Well. Thank you,” Coran said, patting Keith’s shoulder before he helped Lance back into a sitting position. “I see what’s going on with your quintessence levels, young Lance. Quite exciting! Quite unexpected.”

“Is that a good thing?” Keith asked, unsure of how uneasy he was meant to be. 

“Probably!” Coran agreed, before he frowned, pinching his mustache between his fingers. “Maybe. Unknown!”

“Well, what does the scan say?” Keith asked. It felt like something Lance should have—could have—demanded, but he was only sitting there, gaze shifting between the two of them almost too calmly.

“The anomaly with Lance’s quintessence has changed since we first retrieved him and brought him back to the Castle,” Coran said. “Those original scans showed that Lance’s quintessence had been manipulated. Changed. I believe it may now be more accurate to say _his_ quintessence had been blocked by _another_ quintessence, or barricaded. Walled off. Hidden—”

“Coran,” Keith said, feeling like he was slowly remembering his impatience. He couldn’t stand there to figure out word choice of all things. “What does that mean for Lance now?”

“Well, I believe that disconnect is why Blue and Lance were unable to sense one another. Their connection was lost. Until today, when the Blue Lion barreled forth and forced her way through the blockage! Pushed a path straight through!” Coran raised a triumphant fist, switching his grin between the two of them as if this was wonderful news.

Keith didn’t understand, but that happened often with Coran. Lance’s hands shifted in his lap, as if he wasn’t sure whether Coran expected applause.

“The manipulated, foreign quintessence—that’s still there. But it’s been . . .cracked, one might say. Allowing some of Lance’s own to be freed, to allow his connection with the Blue Lion to resume. A breakthrough!” Coran exclaimed and that time—that time Keith did think he understood what was so good about this.

It meant that whatever had been changed within Lance, whatever Lotor had done, it wasn’t necessarily permanent. It meant maybe Keith wasn’t imagining the difference in how Lance held himself, spoke, the softness in those strange eyes. His _smirk_.

He still sat there too silently, for Lance. Hadn’t said a word while Keith and Coran discussed this, as if Lance was used to people speaking about him like he wasn’t there.

But it was a start.

They could follow the path Blue had forged for them, right through to _their_ Lance—and destroy anything Lotor had left behind that was still holding him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday Lance!!! He's in the best place he's been since this fic started, and I didn't do anything _too_ terrible to him here. We'll save that for next week :D
> 
> What did you think of this chapter? I had Blue hint a little at why Lance felt so comfortable around Keith--his quintessence was blocked, but the Red in him still found Keith familiar. Now he sees some of that same connection in Allura because of Blue . . . but he only asked one of them to stay with him. :D
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed! See you in 1-2 weeks with the next chapter!
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	7. What's Wrong With Me?

Once they left the infirmary, the steady peace that had stolen over Lance left. It didn’t go quietly; it went quick, like the increased tempo of his heartbeat.

Keith walked beside him, not too quickly, but their steps were purposeful. The lights in the hall were too bright. Their footsteps and Keith’s voice and the _thing_ inside his head echoed too loudly, overlapping, overwhelming, and—

They’d reached the kitchen. Lance didn’t remember walking inside, but the others were there. Shiro and Pidge and Hunk—Hunk, who smiled and set a plate down in front of Lance. Who reminded him he could eat as much or as little as he wanted, as quickly or slowly as he’d prefer. The others started to talk to each other, but somewhere in their wash of words about proximity alarms and flying Lions, Lance lost the thread of their conversation.

Not immediately. At first, he tried to understand, because Lance was always supposed to be listening. Always learning. Keith said Lance could ask questions, but that wouldn’t include asking all of them to repeat their conversation because Lance’s head spun, thoughts wound so tight that when Pidge tilted her head back and laughed it only sounded like white noise.

The thing, the _Lion_ inside his head said it was alright. _He_ was alright. She didn’t use words, exactly; he didn’t know how to explain it, but might have tried if one of the others demanded it. Allura seemed to know without Lance attempted to explain himself. Like he could understand Blue’s feelings, or glimpsed her thoughts—he knew what Blue felt, and she knew everything Lance knew, so they didn’t need to exchange words.

His temples throbbed. Lance realized he’d already started eating. He didn’t know how long he’d been there, seated in the kitchen, feeling like his skin was too tight. A strange, iron tang stained his next mouthful; he must have bitten his cheek, but Lance didn’t feel the sting of any injury.

When he glanced upward, Keith caught his eye, flashing that minuscule smile Lance already knew to look out for. One that was partly shy and partly reassurance, but now it only made Lance’s stomach feel queasy.

_No._ He was stronger than that, could ignore the uneasy tightness in his abdomen. Hunk had been lenient, but he hadn’t said what would happen if Lance started wasting food, especially if he did so in front of _everyone_.

Shiro splattered some sauce onto his vest, forehead creasing as he frowned in a way that made Lance’s breath catch. That forced Lance to realize he hadn’t _really_ seen the others annoyed before that moment.

He wondered what they looked like when they were angry. It’d been the opposite, back in the med bay. When he’d woken and seen Allura, there’d been too much to focus on—Blue and the new things Allura told him, how nice it felt to have her grip his hand while he’d been too dazed to be afraid. Her smile had been soft; the others all wide-eyed alarm when they piled into the med bay after learning Lance had nearly been injured. They hadn’t screamed at him to take better care of himself, to be cautious and strong, to stop being so stupid, to stop making decisions.

Lance was good at observing others. He knew they’d been happy to see he was alright. Lotor would have—

He—

Lotor had been Lance’s friend. He’d understood Lance; he helped Lance become _better_. Of course, that meant Lotor knew Lance’s weakness for physical contact—knew his thoughts went a little less frantic if he slung an arm around Lance’s shoulders as they walked down the hall, or if he patted Lance’s cheek after he conquered a particularly difficult simulation. In a thousand little ways, Lotor brought them closer, but—

It was a weakness. Behind every reward hid an underlying threat. Lotor knew how much Lance valued their friendship, because if Lotor hadn’t shown him kindness—well, Lance didn’t think he’d have had anything to lose, then. Nothing that would hurt just as much whenever Lotor took it away, or used those hands which could be so gentle to instead . . .

Swallowing hard, Lance ignored the phantom fingers he felt pressing into his throat. An imprint, a reminder from Lotor to _listen_ , to learn, and it didn’t matter that no one on _this_ ship did things like that because Lance remembered how it’d felt to be so . . . small.

With a tiny metallic screech, Lance’s fork dragged against his plate. The unsettled feeling in his stomach returned; he hadn’t realized he’d finished eating. Hadn’t tasted anything at all, feeding himself on autopilot just like he did back home, on the other ship, when eating was another task to complete.

Hunk didn’t mind; he smiled. Eyes crinkling, so he seemed genuinely pleased before Lance’s gaze skittered downward again. “I was hoping you’d like it! I—I wanted to make one of your favorites. Do you want seconds?”

The impulse to automatically agree stuck behind Lance’s teeth, held back onto because he knew if he ate more, he’d _really_ be sick. On this ship, it often felt like choosing between the lesser of two evils: risk giving Hunk an answer he didn’t want, or risk throwing up because his thoughts refused to calm down?

_Don’t you see?_ his thoughts nudged aside, maybe because he was confused, or maybe because of Blue. It was terrifying; it felt like he was new and confused and memoryless, all over again. Alone, surrounded by other people who knew so much more than him. _They’re letting you choose. That’s the important thing_.

“No, thank you,” Lance said, finally, and he realized the others had nearly finished eating as well. He wasn’t supposed to lose time like that; he needed to pay attention.

Something slowly built in his veins, climbing, growing, crawling through him. Lance felt restless, like he needed to run, or cry, or both all at once. Instead he set his fork down so he would not break it, not again, folding his hands in his lap like he’d used to do when the world made more sense and he’d sit in his room and wait and wait and _wait_ and only leave when orders were given so he knew what to expect, and—

And there was another wave of calm rushing from Blue to him but it only made Lance’s heart beat faster, because if he grew too complacent and didn’t focus, if he forgot—

If he didn’t pull himself together and listen, soon—

They would—

He would—

_They’re only here to help you._

Lance knew that; it’d practically been his first lesson. The people around him always wanted to help; _he_ was the problem, so weak and broken and _useless_ only the harshest methods got through to him. Blue tested him, trying to make him . . . give up.

Lance had been good with Lotor, or at least better. Was he getting worse?

Were _they_ making him worse?

On purpose?

“I’ll save some leftovers for you,” Hunk whispered to Lance with a conspiratorial wink. The empty plate in front of Lance had already disappeared; he didn’t know when it’d been taken away. “I’ll make sure to hide them so Shiro can’t find them when he raids the fridge at midnight—”

“Hey,” Shiro protested. “Just because _one time_ I ate that weird seed thing you were saving—”

“Okay, first of all, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure that was even edible so you brought that on yourself—”

Switching his gaze between the two, Lance’s confusion deepened. They sounded like they could have been yelling, but they weren’t. Like they could have been angry, but Shiro grinned like he felt . . . happy. Maybe it was a joke? Friends did that, but Lance had never been good at joking. He’d never really understood Lotor’s.

The restless energy burning inside him felt so tangible Lance thought he’d fall apart.

It hurt, but not in the usual way things hurt him. Like the pain only existed in his mind, his imagination.

“Alright, alright. Aren’t you supposed to be the mature one here?” Pidge interrupted as Shiro said he’d arm wrestle Hunk in exchange for unlimited fridge access, and Hunk griped over the unfairness of such a contest. “You know what? Shiro, I don’t think you can be sure you’re the undefeated champ anymore. Maybe you aren’t the strongest. Lance could give you a run for your money.”

Lance had no idea what that really meant, but he could grasp the implication.

“I’m strong,” Lance said immediately. Maybe not the best, not yet, but Lance was certainly the most motivated. “Of course I’m strong.”

Keith had already started shaking his head. “Oh, Lance, I don’t think that was a challenge—”

“How strong are you?” Pidge asked. Behind her, Shiro’s expression surprisingly mimicked Keith’s. “Hypothetically?”

_You’ll keep fighting until you can’t anymore,_ Lotor’s voice drawled, so distinct Lance nearly glanced over his shoulder. His friend wasn’t there, because Lance had failed and been taken or given away, given up. _Until you’re physically incapable of getting back up again. We know what happens if you refuse to fight, don’t we?_

“I can show you,” Lance said, switching his gaze back to Keith because he seemed like the one he needed to convince the most. Maybe Keith underestimated him. Maybe Keith thought Lance was . . . soft. But Lance was supposed to be making his own decisions. It didn’t matter that the choices he wanted to make were the ones he thought the people crowded around this table would like best. “I want to show you.”

“You only just got out of the med bay,” Keith pointed out. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

_You’re supposed to be resting_ , Blue agreed with Keith.

“I wasn’t hurt,” Lance insisted. It was true, apart from how he’d lost consciousness, but that hadn’t been so bad.

“We need to get a better understanding of what Lance went through,” Pidge said, shrugging when Keith glared at her. “That includes figuring out _him_ , as he is, now.”

Lance realized belatedly the others stared at Shiro. It felt hard for him to focus. Every part of him had carefully been molded to watch and listen and learn. To pay attention, because the others surrounding him were always more important than Lance. 

Something strange had begun, like he was losing snippets of time. One moment Shiro nodded, and the next they were all trekking down the hall that led to the training rooms, and the next Hunk gave Lance an encouraging smile while the others settled onto long benches on the other side of a long, sterile room, and—and Lance didn’t know what he was meant to do. How had he gotten there? When had the others agreed to this?

_Focus_. He could figure it out. He always did. But Hunk and Pidge and Shiro and Keith, they wouldn’t punish him if he asked what it meant when they said _Begin training sequence._ They’d explain, because they cared.

_No_. That was only the voice, Blue, inside his head, telling him that, and Lance couldn’t believe it because his thoughts had never been right on their own before. He’d always worked best when there was someone else telling him what to do. Right?

Leaning over, off-balance, he pulled off those too-comfortable blue socks and folded them neatly, leaving them on the floor.

“That doesn’t seem safe.” Hunk sounded nervous. Maybe he thought Lance was . . . incapable.

“Hunk is right,” Shiro spoke up, half-rising from the bench. Pointing toward the other side of the room, the racks Lance had ignored that were filled with bright white weaponry, sets of armor. He hadn’t bothered looking because in the past, Lotor had handed him those things if they were necessary for a test. Obviously the others wouldn’t really know how strong Lance was if he took something from there. “Don’t you want to—”

“I want to show you how strong I am,” Lance said, bare feet burning against the cool metal floor.

A figure emerged from the floor in front of Lance—a training bot. He could handle that; he could figure this out on his own.

_You aren’t alone._

Pulling his fists upward, Lance shook his head. Ever since he’d failed on Lotor’s ship, he’d been off-kilter and wrong, thoughts like static and stale air and panic. He was beginning to suspect it was because he was thinking too much.

_You aren’t supposed think for yourself. You aren’t good enough. Your instincts are too weak._

Ducking past the bot’s first strike, Lance followed through with a punch directly to its chest. The metal caved, wire split and sparking. The bot dropped, floor opening to accept and devour his defeated opponent. Relief shot through Lance, stark enough to make his hands start shaking.

“Holy shit,” Pidge breathed while the others leaned forward, bench creaking.

“Language,” Shiro said, but the reprimand came out half-hearted. The floor shifted and parted again, this time bringing up two bots.

_Fight until you can’t anymore_. Lance’s breathing hadn’t even hitched faster, but he carefully balanced his weight, ready to start again. Sighing through his nose, he shot forward to strike.

His knuckles began to sting, but at first the bots were almost laughably easy to defeat. Their numbers didn’t always multiply, when they reemerged from the floor. Sometimes they just came out stronger.

_You don’t have to do this. You do have to do this. You’re strong enough. You’re weak. They don’t care. They’re testing you. You’re failing._

One of the bots distracted Lance with a misguided strike near his jaw, throwing him off just long enough to get in a hard hit on his leg; it’d bruise, but he hardly stumbled. He’d felt worse. It was fine.

_You’re going to hurt yourself. No—_

_You aren’t hurt enough. You can’t stop._

Grinding his teeth, digging his toes into the floor—feeling it groan beneath him, metal curving under his feet—Lance threw himself at the bot again. He just needed his thoughts to stop for a minute. He needed quiet. Why couldn’t he figure this out? Why did his head ache so much? He’d gone through worse—so much worse.

_Because you’re meant to be resting._

_Because you’re weak._

Slamming the bot against the ground, over and over again, Lance hit its face until it caved and the ground reopened to swallow the broken pieces left behind.

How many levels had he gotten through? It didn’t matter because it clearly wasn’t enough; he could still stand. Exhaustion burned in his limbs, but that was never an excuse for him to start to lag, to slack off, and Lotor—

“Maybe we should stop him?”

Right, that voice didn’t belong to Lotor, because he wasn’t there, and Lance had been taken or given away because he was too weak and now they were all convinced he was so deficient they needed to stop the training and _what would they do with him then when they realized he was useless_?

“Shiro, yeah, I think he’s—”

Another bot emerged, holding something—a weapon. The staff had a much longer range than Lance did empty-handed, but he’d fought against harder opponents and won. His heels slipped against the floor, skin catching, skidding, burning as he ducked close. The staff caught him in the shoulder, but he held on. It ached a little more when he drove his fists into metal or caught himself on the staff before he could fall or be flung a few feet away.

Easy. This was easy.

_This was pointless._ You _are pointless_.

Lance’s eyes burned and his hands shook as the staff swung down and he wondered if the bot had been this quick, earlier.

“End training sequence!”

Jaw loosening, Lance watched the bot immediately back away, staff lowered, ground opening to accept it. Sweat beaded on his skin but a good kind of ache worked its way through him, the kind that meant he’d fought hard and well. But not for long enough; his legs still held him. Lance knew he could have fought harder.

“That’s enough. I think we’ve seen enough. He’s going to get really hurt.”

They didn’t . . .

They still didn’t think his strength was enough. Did that mean they’d send him back to Haggar? He didn’t think so, but his thoughts were so jumbled and he didn’t want to go back to the lab, didn’t want to be punished, didn’t want to drink that golden liquid and then sit quietly while Haggar picked him apart.

Lance’s hands hung slack by his side, the sting of unseen bruises littering his knuckles. How else could he prove himself?

_They never asked you to. But you’ve already shown them your weakness when they defeated you. But they’d been surprised by him after he connected with the Blue Lion. But had they really been happy about that? But they were his friends—_

No, they weren’t. Not even Keith, the least confusing one of the group. Lotor was his friend, and Lotor was gone. Lance didn’t know when his hands had moved, tugging at his hair, but suddenly he couldn’t stop, strands straining, wrapped tight around his fingers.

They weren’t going to hurt him, and something within said they’d never planned to, but Lance couldn’t believe that because his entire existence from the moment he’d woken on Lotor’s ship had focused on following orders and the consequences that came with his failure. It didn’t matter that Keith and Hunk and Shiro and Pidge had never shoved a needle into his neck and filled his veins with fire. It didn’t matter that Allura knew Blue, too, or that Coran only examined Lance in ways that made him feel better, unlike Haggar’s experiments that left him heaving and hurting and alone.

His knees creaked and then they met the floor. The metal cold, freezing, and it reminded him of all those nights he’d spent on the floor of his room, unable to make it to his cot after Lotor punished him.

Maybe he could stop, now, because he was no longer standing.

_Why was it so hard to breathe?_

He’d just wanted to be good, for once. To demonstrate everything he’d learned during his lifetime with Lotor. He hadn’t even managed to do that without messing up. His thoughts were a scrambled mess, a mixture of Lotor’s orders and Haggar’s taunts, Keith’s reassurances and Blue’s calm. Who was he meant to listen to?

Someone needed to tell him what to do, how to think, because Lance never made decisions on his own, except with Keith. And everything Keith said went directly against what Lotor had taught him, and—

And everyone on this ship always acted like they knew Lance. 

Something touched his shoulder and he flinched away.

Acted like they’d already known Lance, before they met him. It was why they’d given him another name, why Blue was a Lion and not _him_.

_He was supposed to be better_. Better than what? Than who? Haggar had always asked questions that tested his memory, quizzing him on how long he thought he’d been there—what the color of his own eyes was. Questions Lance, of course, had no way of answering. She’d seemed so pleased, so he’d been relieved, because not knowing meant he was doing well.

What if that meant he’d forgotten something? Lance didn’t forget anything; he knew better than to do that.

His fingers pressed harder against his skull, nails scratching skin. Who had Lance been before, if there’d been a before?

What was he forgetting?

The calm tide within him tried to swell, to surround him, but Lance didn’t listen to Blue anymore, or the voices around him.

It felt like a black hole settled within his chest, an empty expanse left behind from the Lance of _before_. Because that had existed, hadn’t it? A time before Lotor. A time when Lance had been worse, lost, without his help.

But he couldn’t remember. Was that . . . good? Pain stabbed through his temples, but Lance ignored it. There were hands on his, trying to pull his fingers from his hair, and his own knees jabbed into his chest, crushing him, making it so hard to breathe.

He didn’t know. Maybe he was supposed to, but Lance didn’t know. Lost and spinning and falling out of control, out of reach, Lance buried his face in his knees and started to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who ordered a chapter filled with angst? :D Of course things have to get worse before they'd get better. You didn't think Lance realizing something was wrong with him would go over well, did you? 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter! These past few weeks have been tough and I loved reading all of your comments. I love hearing your reactions and what you think might happen next!
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	8. Where Hope Keeps Shining

“Here.” Keith glanced up when Hunk paused in front of him, lingering like there was too much for them to say and neither of them knew what shape the words might take when the conversation started. Reaching up automatically, Keith took the mug Hunk offered him. A while back they’d been gifted some plants from a liberated planet that Hunk had managed to turn into the equivalent of space coffee. Sort of. It didn’t have the right color or smell or taste, but did its job of keeping them awake and alert when necessary. “You look like you could—you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks,” Keith said, feeling incredibly tired as he peered down at the mug, the little ripples pulling through the blue liquid inside. Blue, which reminded him of a certain Paladin. Lance had been the first one to call it space coffee, insisting on it loudly whenever Hunk or Pidge tried to teach him the correct name of the plant it was derived from. Lance had been so _loud_ about it, so successful, that Keith didn’t even know the proper words to describe the blue liquid. His hands tightened around the mug until his fingertips whitened.

If he’d been Lance, the mug would have shattered. But Lance was . . . He was—

“We need to talk about what happened,” Shiro said. He’d always seemed too old, even before Kerberos. Serious, strong, the kind of person others looked to for answers. A natural leader. But now—with this—the others kept glancing at Keith, when they thought he wouldn’t notice. Because _he_ was the one Lance kept turning to, like one of those ridiculous space coffee plants seeking out the light of a distant, unhelpful star. “Lance—”

“We pushed him too hard,” Keith said, and he hadn’t realized his frustration would come out as anger until the words were pulled, spat from his mouth on just this side of derision. “We never should have taken him into the training room when he’s barely told Coran anything about what happened to him while he was gone. He thinks he has to answer all our questions, so we should have asked more of them. We should have known he’d react like this.”

“I don’t think _he_ knew he’d react like this,” Pidge said. “Isn’t this what he’s always worried about? Proving himself? Being strong—stronger? Those training rooms are probably more familiar to him than any other part of this ship. That wasn’t just about—about testing him. Did you see the look on his face when we stepped in to stop him?”

Keith had watched, waited, ready to drag Lance out of the simulation at any moment’s notice because letting someone who’d been kidnapped and beaten and punished and _broken_ fight so fiercely had seemed wrong. Until he’d seen how Lance’s shoulders eased, tension disappearing among the planes of his face as soon as he’d raised his fists. Like Lance had been . . . relieved. Like he knew how to handle himself, what to do, while he was in combat. Felt better than he did when he was stuck talking to the rest of them. Sitting beneath scanners in the infirmary. Gathered around the dining table.

Lance hadn’t necessarily looked happy when he’d started pummeling the gladiators into pieces of scrap metal, but he’d seemed less afraid, until everything fell apart and went to shit.

“I believe Pidge is correct,” Allura said. She’d joined their small, regretful huddle in the hall; like Coran she hadn’t seen the fighting, only the aftereffects. “I do not think allowing Lance to do something he remembers and feels familiar with was a terrible step forward. However, with the current state of his mind and how his quintessence has been manipulated, I would assume Lace must continue to feel a massive amount of confusion when interacting with his surroundings.”

“Enough to have a total mental breakdown,” Pidge muttered.

“He was _hurting_ himself,” Hunk said, pulling a hand over his face. He’d been the first to reach for Lance when he’d faltered during the simulation—the one to call for it to end. “I don’t think he knew we were there. He—he wasn’t responding to us, and he’s been so worried about giving us the answers we want, before, that I—I don’t think he would have ignored us. L-Lotor trained him not to do that. I just don’t understand what he was thinking.”

“That’s what we’re going to ask him,” Shiro said. “When he wakes up.”

Most of their gazes shifted to the open doorway of the infirmary, just a handful of feet away. Coran remained in there by Lance’s side, citing the need to perform a few more tests. But they’d practically already used every Altean device on him the last few times Lance had been tucked into an infirmary cot. Keith knew this was just an excuse not to leave Lance alone.

Lance had been so scared when Coran had come into the training room.

None of them had been able to properly subdue him. Lance hadn’t really been fighting against them—Keith’s stomach turned at the thought of what would have happened, if Lance had been out of it enough for that. The unnatural strength fueling him meant they couldn’t pry Lance’s hands from his hair, not while he pulled hard enough that broken strands tangled around his fingers. They couldn’t force him to look up at them, to try to break through whatever thoughts cycled in his mind. Lance’s face remained tucked against his knees. Allura had entered the room, seen what was happening, and gone to Blue to see if she could connect with the Lion, ask her to help. Pidge had gone, footsteps ringing as she ran out of the training room, and returned with Coran.

And Coran had brought a sedative. Just a sedative, in a little device almost like a needle that would hardly puncture the skin. And Lance—

He’d seen. He’d seen Coran and the syringe and froze, hands locked in brown hair that looked too soft to deserve the rough handling, chest heaving where Hunk had placed his hands to try to calm Lance down. Bare heels skidded against the metal floor, his legs unfolded as he lifted his head. Those golden sunshine eyes had widened with horror and shame and misery, just before Lance went limp. Allowed Hunk to pull him back against his chest, where he sat beside Lance on the floor. Allowed Keith to carefully capture both hands and hold them tight, so Lance wouldn’t be able to hurt himself any longer.

Turning his head, Keith had thought Lance merely tried to get a better look at who held him, to stare at Hunk, but there’d been so much fear. Keith had felt the tremble in Lance’s hands, saw the stripe of vulnerable, tan skin he bared to give Coran a better angle for his injection. Lance’s golden eyes had closed like a snap of resignation.

Maybe he wouldn’t remember those moments, when he woke.

But that didn’t matter, because Keith knew, and couldn’t stop thinking about how certain Lance had been that they’d finally decided to punish him. That they were going to hurt him because he’d stopped fighting, because he’d fallen. Thought they were going to do something worse and prove he’d been right to fear them all along.

There was a chance the Lance who woke wouldn’t remember exactly how it’d happened, how he’d been forced to relax, to sleep; Coran said the sedative sometimes muddled memories around the edges.

But Keith wouldn’t forget.

\- - -

None of them wanted to leave Lance, so they decided to camp out in the lounge. Keith had wanted to stay in the infirmary—then the hallway, if he couldn’t keep that close—but Coran had reasonably mentioned they would have no idea what Lance’s mental state would be when he woke. The last thing they needed to do was send him down into another spiral by having him wake with six concerned faces looming over him. People who were still strangers to him.

As the others gathered blankets and pillows, dragging them into the room, Keith hesitated. Then he jogged down one of the halls, practically running after Allura.

“Allura,” he called, just loud enough to make her stop and turn toward him. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

“I do not know,” Allura said. “I believe Pidge failed to properly establish how long your ‘seconds’ are. She did emphasize this phrase I believe I understand—what is up, Keith?”

They’d never spent much time alone together, Keith and Allura. Partly because the princess was incredibly busy. Partly because no matter how many times she’d apologized for her behavior after they’d learned about Keith’s heritage, they’d still never managed to find much in common after they’d made amends. Apart from their concern for Lance, apparently. Keith could tell from the strain in Allura’s face she was trying so hard to reach for levity because she wanted Keith to feel better. None of them was doing great mentally, when it came down to Lance. It was nice, and weird, to have Allura concerned about Keith, and it made him want to . . . pat her on the arm or something, whatever friends did to let each other know everything was going to be okay.

“I wanted to ask about what Blue said when you went to talk to her earlier,” Keith said. Already watching Allura a little too closely, he saw the way her shoulders slumped.

“You know my connection with the Blue Lion has never been as strong as Lance’s,” Allura said. “Now that her true Paladin has returned, Blue is eager to reconnect with him, so she did not share much with me. Instead she is focused on trying to reestablish her bond with Lance. I would not say then that I was able to speak with her. We are unable to have a conversation.”

Folding his arms over his chest, holding tightly to himself, Keith waited. 

“However, I can still feel her. Blue is troubled, but that is unfortunately nothing new. Over that, however, I feel her guilt,” Allura said. One of her hands pressed to her chest as if the pain sat there within her, as aching and real as it was for Blue. “It reminds me of her emotional state just after . . . after we lost Lance.”

Gloves creaking, jacket bunching beneath his fingers, Keith gripped his arms a little tighter. Three months they’d spent looking for Lance. Sleepless, harried, panicked months filled with anxiety and hurt and—

_Get him out of here! I’ll hold them off._

Guilt. Keith and Blue had never had much in common before, either, apart from the Paladin they both . . . 

They’d blamed themselves, after, as much as a sentient lion-shaped spaceship could feel something like human emotion for a mistake caused by someone only half-human.

“She’s missed Lance just as badly as the rest of us and waited for him in the hanger as patiently as she could, after we retrieved him,” Allura said. “I don’t think she understood why he wasn’t coming to her immediately, and so when they were eventually reunited she was . . . overexcited. Too eager to help. Her presence works against manipulated quintessence within Lance. To her, it may seem as though she is pushing back the darkness. The effects of Lance’s imprisonment. To Lance . . . I cannot imagine what it feels like in his thoughts. I believe you witnessed the aftereffects. To him it may seem like a struggle he has no control over, inside his mind.”

Something had been off about Lance before they’d entered the training room. Keith should have known, realized it, forced them to stop before the simulation could begin. But Lance had been different since he’d been found. Since his return, Lance always stared, always assessed his surroundings. He tried so hard to understand the Paladins and Allura and Coran, what they wanted from him.

During dinner, he had hardly looked up from his food. There’d been no quizzical looks, that strained furrow in Lance’s brow that appeared whenever he tried to assess how the others wanted him to react to certain things. He hadn’t been trying, maybe because he’d been listening instead. To Blue, and to whatever thoughts Lotor had left behind.

What would it be like to realize something you’d taken for granted your entire life had been a lie? To think you’d been missing out on something you hadn’t even realized had been taken away from you? To be taught a skewed perspective of the world and then head out into it having everyone you encountered telling you the opposite of what you’d always believed?

Lance should have broken down on day one. It said a lot about him that he’d lasted this long.

“So Blue pushed him too far,” Keith said. “She won’t do it again?”

Allura glanced downward, looking uncertain. “I do not know. It is not as if I could extract any sort of promise from her. But from what I feel, she recognizes her attempts have not helped Lance thus far. Perhaps she will agree to take a calmer, gentler approach. Because if she doesn’t, I fear Lance will withdraw further. We need to connect with him, to understand the past and plan for the future. I—I do not like to see him like this.”

Lance had been deposited in the infirmary three times in as many days and all the Paladins had managed to do since his rescue was make Lance feel worse. Uncertain and alone and scared, and unable to tell any of them that because he was supposed to be _strong_.

“Allura—”

“Keith!”

They both flinched, ducking downward as if to evade attack, when Coran nearly shouted Keith’s name through the comm system. Sheepishly, they straightened, Keith clearing his throat as Allura smoothed her dress with both hands.

“Please come to the infirmary,” Coran said in a much calmer voice—not that it mattered, because Keith’s heart had already started racing. Only a few feet apart in the hall, Keith and Allura’s eyes met. She nodded.

“He must be awake,” Allura said.

\- - -

“I must warn you that the sedative is still very present in his system,” Coran said. “Please do your best not to alarm him as I would prefer not to have to administer another dose, Number Four. I see no ill effects from the medication working with his body as he is, now, but the mere fact of administering it . . . did seem to only add to Lance’s stress.”

His eyes had been so wide, pleading and resigned, closing as he bared his neck for Coran and expecting a kind of pain Keith was desperate to ensure Lance never felt again. He’d rip apart the universe to see Lance safe.

“I know,” Keith said, lingering in the infirmary door. “I’m here for him. Whatever he needs.”

Even if Lance should have asked for Hunk, who was gentler, comforting, warm. Pidge, who’d know how to distract Lance, keep him happy. Shiro, who’d have good advice, who knew best what it was like to have Haggar inside his mind.

“That button there,” Coran pointed. “Press that if young Lance needs anything.”

After an assessing look, he clasped Keith on the shoulder. “Press it if you need anything, too, Keith.”

He was fine. Keith needed nothing.

He wasn’t the one who’d been taken and tortured and bent, memories burned out of his skull without even ashes left behind as a reminder of what had once been.

Lance shifted on the infirmary cot, so Keith went to stand by his side. Those golden eyes were open, watching, staring at Keith, but had the glazed-over sheen of someone on too much medication with only a thin grasp of their current situation. Wide, searching, because Lance was—

He was scared.

Ever since they’d taken him from Lotor’s ship, only slips of emotion had managed to wriggle through Lance’s blank expression. Stoic and serious and _strong_ , always assessing, always determined to do just what he thought the others around him expected Lance to do. The sedative had broken through those barriers—calming Lance, sure, enough that he’d stopped hurting himself, that they’d been able to bring him here and carefully monitor him. But it’d shattered Lance’s mask, revealing the strain of his worry, the scope of his fear. Had he been this afraid over the past few days, but unwilling to let them see?

Had he been so afraid when he’d been with Lotor?

Keith couldn’t do this.

Keith had no other choice.

“Coran said you were asking for me,” Keith said when Lance made no indication he was ready to speak. Leaning forward, heart thumping, Keith fought through the worry and exhaustion and anger threatening to pull him under. “Lance—Lance, I need you to breath for me.”

It looked like Lance was trying to pretend he wasn’t choking or panicking. Like oxygen stuck and flamed inside his throat and when Keith stepped closer, hand brushing over the infirmary blanket, golden eyes flickered with uncertainty. Lance pulled in a ragged breath that sounded more like a gasp. It didn’t sound good, but better than nothing.

“We aren’t going to hurt you,” Keith said. Coran had left a chair by Lance’s cot but it felt in that moment that if Keith turned his gaze away, if he moved aside, somehow Lance would slip away from him. Again. “We brought you here to keep you safe. No one is going to hurt you. Tell me what’s making you so afraid.”

It wasn’t an order—Keith rarely meant to sound so sharp, he couldn’t help it if his words spat out with razor edges—but some of the tension eased in Lance’s expression. The reason why he liked Keith so much, then. Because he was the most direct, maybe easiest to understand within the confines of confusion.

“I failed,” Lance said, words blurred because of the medication Coran had given him. “Again. I stopped fighting. And you’ll have to . . .”

His voice trailed off as if he didn’t want to give Keith any ideas of how to punish him. Keith knew Lance would tell him everything, if he asked. Demanded. Knew he’d told Coran some of it, his recent past, enough to understand his current mindset, but nowhere near enough to comprehend everything Lotor had done. 

“You’re recovering from something terrible and we pushed you too far,” Keith said. “I’m sorry. We’re the ones who failed you.”

For a moment, there was a flash of something in the tightening of Lance’s jaw that reminded Keith of . . . _Lance_. The person he’d been, before. The one who looked for a moment like he wanted to fight Keith because they often had opposing opinions.

“I could have fought longer,” Lance said. “Kept going. I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t—”

“What?” Keith asked, exasperation bleeding. “Ready to collapse yet?”

His heart jolted at the way Lance shrugged. _Oh_. Lotor had been molding Lance for _something_. In a way it made a sickening kind of sense that Lance would continue to train until he received other orders or was physically unable to continue. Knowing what the consequences would be if he made his own decision to stop.

“I’ll keep telling you,” Keith said. “I’ll remind you every day if I have to, for the rest of our time together, no matter where we are in the universe. We want to take care of you, Lance. We want to help. We don’t want you hurt in combat or training or because I said something without considering how you’ll interpret the words. I’ll destroy the training room myself if I think the training room will pull you down, hurt you, again.”

“I just wanted to show you all that I’m . . . that I can . . . My training made me better than this,” Lance said. His gaze shifted, staring down at the infirmary blanket, the blinking machinery Keith still didn’t fully understand. “I’m good. I’m better.”

“Lance,” Keith said, catching himself, because he’d said his name with the same exasperated tone he’d always used whenever he caught Lance talking down about himself. Back when things had been normal between them. It felt like that’d been so long ago, another lifetime, an alternate universe. “There was nothing wrong with you to begin with. Nothing you needed to change.”

Then it was Keith’s turn to startle, because Lance’s eyes filled with tears. His hands lifted, heavy, fighting against the blanket tucked around him, but when Keith lurched forward, worried Lance would start pulling his hair again, he only held onto the sides of his head. Like he felt dizzy, spinning—he blinked hard, as if that would help him focus, but it only made a few tears roll down his cheeks. The sedative making him more vulnerable; Keith making Lance feel worse.

_What have I done?_ If any of the others had been in there, they wouldn’t have made Lance _cry_.

“I don’t understand,” Lance said, mashing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I don’t—I don’t—”

“Ask questions, Lance,” Keith said. “Let me help you.”

He’d find a way to bring Lance back to Earth, to safety, if that’s what it would take. He’d never let Lance in the training rooms again. He’d erase any hint of Lotor’s existence from the entirety of the universe, to ensure Lance never cried again.

“You say these things like you know me,” Lance said. “And Blue won’t—she won’t _stop_. In my head. All the time. Today. During the fight. Reassuring me and saying things that don’t make any sense because—because I just met her. I’ve never been here before.”

They were quiet together, long enough for Keith to realize some of Lance’s tears came from frustration. Because he was smart enough to figure out something was missing for him, _from_ him, and yet no one on the castleship had given him the tools to know what was happening within Lance’s mind. Trying so hard to focus on fixing him in the future, they’d neglected to see how they could help him _before_ they understood the weird quintessence stuff happening within him. The current Lance, the one lost and alone among strangers, needed them. Needed help.

“I woke up to Haggar,” Lance said, swallowing hard when his voice seemed near broken. “I met Lotor. I spent my entire life with them. But Blue thinks . . . she says . . . and you all act like . . . You gave me a name and acted like I should have known it.”

There was no denying it. Lance deserved only the truth, and Keith would never lie to him, anyway.

“We knew you before Haggar, and Lotor, and that ship,” Keith said. His hands fisted in the infirmary blanket, trying to keep himself grounded, not tipping into the abyss where Lance was perched on the edge. “We came to get you back from them. We missed you.”

“But I don’t remember,” Lance said, pressing his hand hard against his temple, not resisting when Keith reached up to remove it because with Lance’s strength, he could do some real damage to himself. “I didn’t know I was forgetting. It’s all—it—it hurts.”

It did look like it pained him, physically, to admit that he was hurting.

Keith wondered if that was another aftereffect of Lotor’s training. But he pressed down the anger boiling within him, threatening to tear free and destroy and probably freak Lance out a lot more if Keith started shouting and hitting things.

“We can teach you,” Keith offered suddenly, some of his rage doused by the way Lance’s gaze immediately snapped up to meet his. “I can show you, if you want. What you’re forgetting. Then we’re going to get your memories back, Lance. All of them. I promise.”

It took only a few moments, not even a minute, before Lance considered the offer and nodded. His grip on Keith’s hand tightened, as if he feared the Paladin would let go and leave him there, confused, knowing he was missing memories. Not knowing what the contents of those memories had been. Who Lance had been.

Keith didn’t plan on letting go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally have a way forward! At least, for now. :D The next chapter will be almost all fluff (okay, tinged with a little angst) because you've definitely all earned it, and you'll get back Keith and Lance POVs! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter! I love reading all of your comments! What do you think Keith and Lance will do next?
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	9. I'll Come Flying to You

The world blurred and shook as soon as Lance opened his eyes.

_You’ll be on your feet as soon as the lights turn on. You won’t like what happens if you force me to come in there and wake you._

Lance tried to sit upright, but the world remained unsteady, and in the moments it took to dig his hands into the blanket trapping him against the cot, to tear himself free, he realized the lights overhead were blue. The machines beeping nearby were white, slick and unfamiliar. The infirmary cot was soft; Lance was incredibly, contentedly warm. Before Coran poked his head through the open doorway of the infirmary, Lance had already realized he was on the castleship. Not . . . home.

His thoughts stilted, stammered over that, too, because he remembered Keith’s promise. There was a yawning abyss of _nothing_ in Lance’s memory where the rest of his life should have been. A time before Haggar, before Lotor. Memories that could contain anything—time on the castleship with the others, with Keith. Another home. A different one. A life of growing and learning without Lotor.

“Good morning, my boy! I hope you slept well. Didn’t get a peep from you throughout the night!” Coran said, walking over to roll a few of the strange machines away from Lance. “The sensors here would have told me if you woke before now. Not that I would have minded coming to check in on you! Doesn’t take much sleep to help me look this handsome.”

Tugging at the end of his moustache, Coran offered Lance a wink. Then he busied himself pouring over one of the machines, reading symbols Lance couldn’t read.

_Could_ he read anything?

No. Lotor hadn’t taught him.

But . . . could . . . he?

“Coran?”

Lance was fairly certain his own surprise mirrored Coran’s, when he spoke, but . . . Making decisions on his own made him feel a little less like he was going back to _that_ place, that state of mind that had him spiraling down and down with no escape, no light, no way out, skin itching and breath rasping and—

“Yes, Lance?” Coran paused, gaze making a quick scan of Lance’s body as if something had surely gone wrong. Coran had done nothing but look after him since Lance had arrived on this ship and landed in the infirmary three separate times. He didn’t treat Lance like someone who was broken and lost but like someone who . . . he liked saving, or at least wanted to help. He hadn’t hurt Lance, with the injection he’d brought to the training room. Coran helped Lance. Always.

“Thank you,” Lance said.

Coran’s smile made Lance think of friendship, but it was not at all like when his friend Lotor smiled. _This_ smile made Lance feel as comfortable as he had been while tucked under the soft infirmary blanket.

“I’ll always be here when you need me,” Coran said. “Quicker than a baranian forsnap!”

That made entirely no sense to Lance, but Coran’s tone felt nice.

“You have a big day ahead of you,” Coran said. “Number four—ah, Keith. He’s informed me that we’ll be sharing with you some of the things you may have forgotten. First, I’d like you to promise me something, Lance. If you feel overwhelmed, or need to take a break, you’ll tell one of us. Maybe come and find me. Because this isn’t a test of your strength, my boy. It also isn’t a race. We’re working to help recover your memories and, in the meantime, will do anything to make you happy. Pushing yourself too hard will do just the opposite.”

They hadn’t liked it when Lance had tried to show his strength in the training room. Hadn’t punished him when he’d failed so miserably.

“I promise,” Lance said, before allowing Coran to help extract him from the warm blanket, easing to his feet. “No pushing myself too hard.”

“The others are in the lounge waiting for you,” Coran said. “They didn’t want to go far last night.”

Lance didn’t really understand what that meant until he thought of his first night on the castleship, asking Keith to stay. Afraid to be around the others, afraid to be alone—terrified to admit he felt fear at all.

“Okay,” Lance said, and then when Coran seemed prepared to walk Lance there, he added, “I’ll find them.”

Because if he was going to find out more about himself, Lance needed to build up some of his courage first.

\- - -

Walking into the lounge, Lance blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the mass of limbs and blankets and pillows filling the empty space that usually existed between the couches. It looked like a many-limbed monster had been swallowed whole by multicolored fabric. He saw the very top of Hunk’s head resting on a cushion, the Paladin still lightly snoring. Pidge, propped on her elbows, tapped something on some kind of electronic device. Keith, also awake, spotted Lance first. 

“Hey,” Keith said, so Pidge glanced up immediately as well. “You’re up. How are you feeling?”

Lance didn’t really know how to answer that question, because he knew that he didn’t need to lie, but . . . Lotor and Haggar never asked Lance about his _feelings_. Not unless they were trying to gauge if he’d been properly punished. So Lance did something that sent a little thrill down his spine: he ignored the question entirely.

“I’m ready to learn about myself,” he said. “Please.”

“Eager,” Pidge laughed. He’d heard them do that in the castleship, before. Teasing, joking, laughing together. He’d never heard a sound like it on Lotor’s ship—light and catching, like Pidge invited Lance to join in on some kind of joke, too. He didn’t know what exactly he’d done to make Pidge laugh; he wanted to do it again. “Alright. C’mon, Hunk. Up and at ’em.”

Picking up a nearby pillow, Pidge tossed it toward Hunk and missed spectacularly. It bounced off of what Lance had mistaken for a mound of unused blankets, only realizing it was Shiro when he started to stir.

“Uh, sorry, Shiro,” Pidge said sheepishly, then yelped when Shiro flung the pillow back at her. Lance glanced between the two, Pidge laughing again as soon as the pillow smacked her in the face.

“You’re fighting,” Lance said, though it came out sounding more like a question. “Because of me.”

“No,” Pidge said immediately, and Lance reminded himself that he was supposed to believe her. It was infinitely more difficult when he didn’t understand what was going on. “Not exactly. It’s fun. And it doesn’t hurt. See?”

Beaming innocently, she whipped the pillow again and, this time, managed to hit Hunk.

“Wha . . . What’s happenin’?” Hunk asked sleepily, reaching out and pulling the pillow close to his chest.

“ _No_ , Hunk I—here, Lance. You try,” Pidge said, offering another pillow to him. 

Light and soft and . . . fun? Maybe this was the sort of thing he would have done, _before_. Though he strained, no new memories resurfaced, nothing to help him puzzle through time with the Paladins.

Pidge watched him eagerly, and Lance—Lance realized he wanted to see her happy again. Not because he was afraid of what she’d do while feeling _other_ emotions, but because it made _him_ feel . . .

It made him feel . . .

He wasn’t sure. It wasn’t an emotion he remembered or had the words for.

These people—Pidge and Keith and Coran and Shiro and Allura and Hunk—they made him _feel_. 

So Lance whipped the pillow over his head, but he’d gripped the fabric too tight. It tore between his fingers, ripped pieces of cloth and stuffing spilling down to catch in Pidge’s hair. She sneezed. Lance looked down at his hands, wondering not for the first time why he was so different—so wrong, compared to the others, when he was meant to be better.

Then Pidge started to laugh, and Shiro, too, making the blankets piled over him shiver violently. Even Keith cracked a smile, and Lance felt his own expression soften as something in his chest warmed. Like he was still wrapped up tight in the infirmary cot with Coran looking after him. Or sleeping in a comfortable bed with Keith a few feet away so he wouldn’t have to be alone.

_Safe_. Maybe this was what that felt like.

\- - -

Hunk insisted they stop to have breakfast before, he said, “Any important brain work or remembering started.”

Lance didn’t think he’d really _remember_ anything, because at this point he’d spent a few days on the castleship and _everything_ remained unfamiliar. But Hunk seemed excited to have Lance eat his food—focused this time, able to taste something spectacular he didn’t quite have the words to describe. Eating had always been about fuel, survival, using resources well. Pleasing Lotor. Consuming whatever was set before him, even if it left his stomach empty and grumbling, or so full he thought maybe—maybe Lotor waited for him to be sick, just to have the chance to punish him for the transgression.

_But Lotor was his friend_.

Hunk only smiled when Lance left some breakfast on his plate, unable to eat any more. They didn’t mind that he wasted some of their food. His eyes caught Keith’s—once, twice—while they ate, and Lance stayed quiet because it was always difficult for him to decide what to say. Trying to speak while doing something else at the same time felt impossible. But Keith didn’t watch him like he thought Lance needed to speak up, to do _something_.

He watched Lance because he . . . cared. 

It felt uncomfortable. Nice. Overwhelming, like Lance stood too close to a flame, waiting for the burn.

“Can we get Allura?” Hunk asked. During breakfast, Shiro had informed Lance that Allura had been part of their messy pile in the lounge until a few hours before Lance awoke. She’d gone to the bridge to make sure their position was still secure. “Before we get started? She has some great Lance stories, too.”

Lance wondered if _he_ was the reason Allura was always so busy on the bridge.

“Yes,” Lance said, because of his guilt, and because she seemed to be the one who best understood the Blue presence slumbering in a corner of his mind. “Let’s get Allura.”

She seemed surprised to see all of them a handful of minutes later, piling onto the bridge with enthusiasm. For a stark, terrifying moment, Lance worried he’d—they’d—overstepped some boundary, but then she smiled.

“It’s good to see you all finally up and about,” Allura said, then peered toward Lance with a smile that wrinkled the corners of her eyes. “How are you, Lance? Have you settled things with Blue?”

He felt tentatively toward that sleepy corner of his mind before shrugging. Part of him was sure Blue would be just as insistent, inserting her opinions when she had recovered some of her energy. Part of him knew admitting that would only worry Allura.

“She isn’t talking to me right now,” Lance said. “She tired herself out yesterday, I think.”

Trying to reach out to him again and again and again, pushing through even when he did his best to ignore and block her.

_There’s nowhere you can go I wouldn’t find you._

Maybe Blue cared for him a little too much.

“We haven’t started to tell Lance about, uh, Lance yet,” Hunk said. “You want to join, Allura?”

“Yeah,” Pidge smirked. It was an entirely different expression than the smiles Lance had analyzed earlier in the lounge. “You probably have some great stories about Lance trying to flirt with you.”

“Flirt?” Lance flinched when he realized he’d said the word aloud and the others had turned to look at him. It made his head ache, to know what a word meant, to know he’d never flirted with anyone before—to not even know how to begin—and to be told otherwise. “With Allura?”

“Uh . . . yes,” Shiro said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kind of . . . a lot.”

“All the time,” Hunk confirmed.

Allura looked a little flushed; Lance wondered if she’d exerted herself too much before they’d arrived. “I’m not sure if we would—”

“I want to know what I was like,” Lance said, although the look on Pidge’s face _did_ make him feel uneasy, especially when her gaze shifted between Allura and Keith. “Please.”

“You had a lot of cheesy lines you liked to use,” Pidge said. “Romantic . . . stuff. Going on about her beauty and then doing this, a lot.”

She raised her hands, thumbs lifted and index fingers pointing outward.

“Yeah, you _did_ do the whole finger guns thing a lot,” Shiro said, looking down at his own hands.

“Okay,” Lance said, staring down at his fingers. He mimicked the gesture, which looked absolutely nothing like the Galran weaponry he excelled at handling, and aimed them toward Allura. Flirting didn’t sound so difficult. “You’re beautiful.”

“Well, that was a little straightforward,” Hunk said.

“Is this truly necessary?” Allura asked, pressing down on Lance’s hands to lower his . . . ‘guns’. “You don’t need to practice this sort of thing on me, Lance. Well, I suppose if it helps you feel more normal, or comfortable—”

“He could always practice on someone else,” Pidge said, and her voice sounded . . . odd. Strangled. Like she held something back and couldn’t breathe quite right. Quickly, she added, “Not me.”

Lance tentatively lifted his . . . finger guns. No one met his eyes; Pidge and Hunk were preoccupied, caught in a staring contest with one another. Shiro looked up toward the ceiling, eye twitching.

And . . . Keith.

Keith looked at Lance, boredom caught in his expression as he lifted an eyebrow.

“You’re beautiful,” Lance said, leveling his finger guns at him. _Pow, pow_. “You’re . . . I don’t know any lines about cheese, Pidge. How would I say something romantic about cheese?”

Something in that sentence must have been wrong because Pidge laughed so hard Shiro had to catch her elbow to keep her upright. Glancing back toward Keith, Lance noticed he seemed even more flushed than Allura had earlier, and wondered if perhaps something had gone wrong in the bridge’s ventilation system.

\- - -

“Cheesy like endearing,” Hunk explained quietly as they walked through the castleship. “Like . . . sappy. Love, romantic stuff. You like—liked—uh, flirting with a lot of people. Aliens. It didn’t seem like you had a particular type.”

_Romance_. Lance knew what the word meant, but when he tried to think of any specific examples, to determine what exactly was _romantic_ , he came up with little more than a threatening headache. 

“And people like that?” Lance asked. “It makes them happy?”

“Generally, yeah,” Hunk nodded. “I mean, I think Allura thought it was a little too much, sometimes. But you always had a way of . . . holding the team together. Keeping everyone positive. Making us laugh. And you still do, dude. I can’t even explain how happy we are to have you back.”

“But you thought I would remember you,” Lance pointed out.

“We did. Well, we didn’t really know what happened to you, so we’d . . . hoped. Hoped Lotor hadn’t been able to do too much to you before we found you,” Hunk said. “We—we didn’t mean to take so long. But you can ask any of us and we’d all agree. Even if you never remember anything from before, we’re glad to have you here. We want you here. And we’ll do everything, anything, to make sure no bad thing ever happens to you again.”

A . . . bad thing. That was maybe a good way to describe his time with Lotor and Haggar. Describing all Lance could remember of his life.

“One advantage to you not remembering, if we could, like, call anything that, is getting to show you cool things for the first time all over again,” Hunk said. “Like here. You used to come here all the time.”

They’d entered an observation deck and Lance hadn’t even noticed.

He’d traveled throughout Lotor’s ship, of course, always supervised. But those days had always been focused. Frightened. There’d been no time to think of anything beyond his orders and Lotor’s mood and what was expected of him. Thinking beyond that next step often meant he’d make a mistake and be punished.

So, though he’d seen the stars before, Lance had never _seen_ stars like this. Pinpricks spread on a black backdrop that _should_ have been frightening from its massive size. But it was a comfort, a thrill, to know how massive the universe was. To see there was so much more out there than Lance had ever known. To know these people around him had traveled so far and literally fought against him, just to bring him . . . home.

Lance didn’t realize how close he’d gotten to the glass, didn’t know how long he’d stood there staring and thinking and lost, until Shiro cleared his throat. 

“You’d come here a lot after training if you wanted a few minutes to yourself,” Shiro said.

“You never did seem to want to stay in your room for very long,” Allura added.

“Sometimes you fell asleep here,” Hunk said. “I don’t know if you did it on purpose, but I’d find you curled up next to the glass. You were so relaxed. Like being here under all these stars reminded you of camping out at home.”

Lance’s brow wrinkled, so they told him about home. A different one that wasn’t a ship, and they faltered when Lance had to admit that he’d seen photos of planets but had never actually been to one with Lotor. He could picture sky and grass and water but only because of those images Lotor had shown during his training. Lance couldn’t say for certain he knew what a sunset was. He didn’t understand when Pidge tried describing the smell of rain.

They told him about his family. A place called Cuba, which was on a planet called Earth. How he’d met the others. What they’d done together; how far they’d traveled. How he’d found Blue, and how she’d chosen him.

“Out of everyone in the universe, you are worthiest of her,” Allura said. “It was my honor to connect with her briefly, to aid in our search for you. But _you_ are the Paladin she’s always wanted most.”

They spoke about other planets they’d visited and battles won or lost. How Lance had been there through it all, fighting beside them—flirting, Allura admitted with a smile that lit brighter when their eyes met. They told him about souvenirs brought back from strange worlds, about the war in which they were currently embroiled. 

They didn’t say how they’d lost him.

Lance didn’t ask.

Instead he listened, until their voices started to grow rough around the edges and he lost all sense of time. How long had they sat together on the observation deck? How much longer would it take before he might remember some, any, of this?

When they tired of talking, Pidge pulled out a datapad and, apologizing that they didn’t have any from Earth, started scrolling through pictures. Pidge and Hunk coated in a disgusting green substance in the kitchen. Shiro running away from some kind of carnivorous plant. Allura in the training room. Keith scowling in the lounge.

There was a stranger in each of the photographs.

Tightening his hand into a fist, Lance glanced down at his brown skin. He thought about strands of hair falling to the floor, ripped painfully from his head. His height, in comparison to the others. The clothing he’d seen in a room that was supposed to be his but didn’t feel like it.

Before Pidge could swipe and change the image again, Lance reached over to stop her. His heart stuttered when he realized what he’d done, fingertips ghosting against the back of her hand, but Pidge only glanced up at him. 

“What is it?” she asked, but Lance couldn’t find the words to explain, as usual on the castleship.

In the photo, a reluctant Keith had been pulled into the edge of the frame by Hunk. And on the other side of him—squished between Hunk and a grinning Pidge, beaming and flashing those _finger guns_ he’d been taught earlier—

“That’s me,” Lance said, index finger pressing down on the image. It didn’t make it feel any more real. He wasn’t—he couldn’t remember ever making an expression like that. Eyes crinkled, head thrown back, smile bright. Unstrained. _Happy_. In the photo, Pidge and Hunk looked so relaxed; even Keith had amusement lingering in the lift of his eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Pidge nodded. “We took it a few weeks before—uh, before . . . We had this whole movie night thing planned.”

She didn’t seem to understand. 

Lance wanted to take the datapad and pull it closer to study his _face_. That was _him_. What he looked like. _Had_ looked like.

Did he . . .

Did Lance still look like that?

Pulling his hands back to himself—remembering what he’d forgot in his haste, remembering his discomfort—he lifted a hand to trace the hard line of his jaw, fingertips smoothing over his cheek.

“Hey, Lance?” At some point, Keith had come to sit next to him, and Lance had quietly admitted to himself that it made him feel _safe_ in a much different way than he did when he saw the others smile. “Did you not know?”

“What?” Lance asked, and then swiftly looked away, because he wasn’t understanding the question on purpose, and surely they’d know, and—

Keith only asked it again.

“Did you not know what you looked like?”

“I . . .” Lance knew the others were listening, and he dropped his hands so they settled in his lap, feeling in a way like he’d betrayed himself. “I just didn’t—”

_What color are your eyes?_

“I don’t know.”

_Good_.

“I think that I forgot.”

“But—but couldn’t you see yourself _somewhere_?” Hunk protested, and Lance’s shoulders curved because Hunk sounded so . . . bad. Sad. Awful.

Lance had done that, turned the cheerful mood sour.

“I didn’t—it wasn’t important,” Lance said. Sometimes he’d seen his outline wavering, wilting, reflected back at him, caught in a sheet of metal. On a weapon. The side of a shining ship. But he’d been . . . busy. He’d been afraid. “I just—I didn’t—”

“It’s alright,” Keith said, and when Pidge shut off her datapad, Lance realized his hands were still curled into fists. “It isn’t your fault, Lance. We just didn’t realize.”

“I think maybe this was enough for one day,” Shiro said, words careful—weighted, as if he didn’t know which might be the one to break the tension filling the observation deck. “Why don’t we take a break? I know I’m feeling a little overwhelmed.”

Lance squinted at Shiro because he thought that was a lie. _Lance_ was the one who felt like one sharp inhale would send him scattering to the farthest corners of the galaxy, and the others were . . .

Looking at him like they’d be there to help put those pieces back together.

“Come on,” Keith said, standing and dusting off his pants. “Let’s get out of here.”

\- - -

Keith leaned against the doorway to Lance’s bathroom because he’d asked Keith to stay. Or asked him not to leave; Lance couldn’t remember the exact words, not when his mind was preoccupied. Spinning, spiraling—but not quite so bad, not yet, because Keith was there to remind Lance if he forgot to breathe.

Lance stared down at the metal floor. While unconscious in the infirmary, someone—Coran?—had given him a new pair of socks, blue and soft and warm. He couldn’t feel the floor’s chill through them; their presence reminded him of Blue, who gave a short, apologetic rumble in his thoughts.

It felt like pushing on to another training level when he wanted to collapse. It felt like when the lights in his room snapped on and he only had to wait for a knock on his door. It felt terrible and inevitable, when Lance looked up and stared at himself in the mirror.

Stared at _Lance_ , from the pictures. _Lance_ , except not, because he could already see all the ways his time away had made him different.

Did it matter, if he couldn’t actually remember who he’d been, before?

Lance leaned closer, edge of the sink jabbing into his stomach. When he lifted his hand, the Lance in the mirror did the same. They both searched over their skin, the features he’d only been able to feel before and never imagine. He looked so different from Lotor and Haggar—had known that even when he couldn’t see his own face. He looked different from the others on the castleship, too. A look that was just . . . Lance.

He traced over rounded ears and parted lips and a slim white scar cutting across one temple. There were other scars on his body; he knew that much. Ones he could see, and ones he didn’t quite understand, like the uneven edges of a large one that seemed to center on his back, though he couldn’t quite twist enough to really get a good look at it. To Lance, he’d always had it. To the others . . . They would probably know how he’d gotten it. They’d know what had happened. They’d remember.

He wasn’t grinning in the mirror like he’d done in most of Pidge’s photos. Straining his lips, Lance tried mimicking the look, but it only looked . . . sad. A farce of what had once been. It made Lance’s hands clench in a way that forced him to think of other things or else he risked breaking the bathroom apart.

His hair was longer than it’d been on the screen, unkempt by the edges because Lotor had only impatiently ordered it chopped short once or twice to keep it from getting in Lance’s eyes. Becoming a distraction. 

Lifting a hand, Lance smoothed his fingers over his browbone.

“They’re different,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

_What color are your eyes?_

The Lance in the photo had eyes that were shockingly blue, like the Lion, like his socks.

The Lance in the mirror was different. There were new lines around his eyes, a heaviness that he thought ruined any chance at replicating the carefree look captured in those old photos. These eyes had seen too much confusion, pain, punishment.

They were gold, and in the mirror, they seemed to glow softly. The sink creaked when Lance dropped his hand.

“We think it might be some kind of side effect from your manipulated quintessence,” Keith said. “I . . . It might not be permanent.”

_Might_ not. They didn’t know anything about what would happen with him in the future because they hardly understood what had been done to him in the past. It made sense. Still.

_Still_.

Even if Lance squinted and imagined and strained, he couldn’t see past all the gold to the person, the past, he’d forgotten.

“Do they . . . is it . . . bad?” Lance asked, finally, _finally_ , tearing his gaze away from the mirror. Keith had stepped closer but there were still a good few feet between them. He’d crossed his arms, too, as if to prove he wasn’t going to try to reach for Lance. To hurt him.

“They’re different,” Keith shrugged. There was a strange catch, a hesitation, in the movement. “It’s only a color. We didn’t really know what it would be like, when we came to rescue you. What Lotor had done, what might have changed about you . . . It could have been so much worse. To have you back? I couldn’t care less about a color change.”

Lance studied Keith, wondering if he was telling the truth. Because Lotor had lied about _everything_. How Lance needed to be strong, to be better. How there’d never been anything for him before Lotor and Haggar and their ship. If Lotor could lie, _anyone_ could, and Lance didn’t know how to make decisions for himself, much less how to decide who would speak to him truthfully.

Except, when he looked at Keith, something in his heart, his head, that had nothing to do with Lotor’s instructions or Blue’s prodding told him Keith would always be there to help. To calm him. To help him steer through the turmoil of his own mind.

Lance brushed his hands over his temples, remembering the scar, the strange gleam in his golden eyes.

Keith’s gaze was somehow simultaneously soft and closed-off.

“Your eyes are like galaxies,” Lance told him, stepping closer. At first glance, they looked like a soft shade of purple, but there were grays in there, too. Black. The palest blue. The kind of eyes someone could get lost in; the kind of eyes where someone could find themselves saved.

They only pretended at being harsh, whereas Lance’s were startling and bold and _wrong_.

“I think I’m angry at Lotor,” Lance said.

Keith seemed like he needed a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Well,” he said. “That’s a start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluff turned a little angst-tinged in the end, BUT it's by far the fluffiest chapter to this point so I hope you all enjoyed :D I've been trying to think about where we are in the timeline for this fic and I'd say we're a little over a third of the way through--I'm sorry/you're welcome/there's a lot more coming?
> 
> As a side note, I've been thinking about doing a few Voltron one-shots soon, so if you have any requests or prompts feel free to message me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com).


	10. No Stars in the Sky

“Please let us know at any moment if you would like to stop,” Allura said, standing to Lance’s left. Keith peered over his right shoulder, eyes narrowed against the glare of the screens. “Blue will be listening closely as well and end the simulation should that seem to be for the best. Do not put so much pressure on yourself to fly well. If your memories of training as a pilot are lost, we cannot do anything but expect you to—”

“Have fun,” Keith interrupted. Lance shifted in the pilot’s seat, craning his neck until their eyes met. “Fly like you’re having fun.”

“Okay,” Lance said, an odd intensity around his eyes, leaving the gold dull.

Keith didn’t want to think about that, because it’d probably make him spiral down into realizing that a week on the castleship hadn’t been enough time to teach Lance what ‘fun’ meant. Lance approached everything with caution—not quite the same fear he’d shown at first, not always, but he tackled every new thing presented to him like it was a challenge. One that would bring him unimaginable pain if he failed.

Comparing that Lance to the one who’d expressed so much joy flying, who’d taken Blue out for joyrides when the others had been too tired to even think about piloting, who’d just wanted to see the stars . . . 

Lance shifted his attention back to the viewscreen. Allura and Keith both gripped the back of his chair; Allura had set up some kind of simulation sequence which meant they wouldn’t actually be flying, but she’d assured both of them it would _feel_ very real. As in, Keith didn’t want to get knocked onto his ass in the first moment because the controls would be unfamiliar to a Lance who couldn’t even remember the days when the world tried to insist he’d never be anything more than a cargo pilot.

Keith had been right to brace himself.

The screen flickered, view changing from the inside of the hanger to something planetside, a world Keith didn’t remember ever seeing. Blue rumbled beneath his boots, eager to take off. Well, _pretend_ take off. She and Lance seemed to be on happier terms, at least. No intrusive thoughts that would drag him into a panic attack.

Lance’s fingers flexed around the controls.

And then they took off so fast Keith _really_ would have been thrown to the back of Blue if he hadn’t dug his other hand into Lance’s shirt, stretching the fabric, anxiously hanging on.

“Lance— _Lance_ —” Allura, eyes wide, tried to grab Lance’s attention, but his stare was fixed on the screen. On space—simulated space—at least until Blue’s nose tipped downward.

“Oh,” Keith sighed, locking his knees as they tipped back down toward the atmosphere. “Shit.”

If nothing else could have proved to Keith this was their Lance, memories or not, the way he reacted to Blue would have done it. They hurtled back down toward the planet’s surface, pulling up in time to kick up a lot of dust and avoid making a new crater and failing the sim. Miniature enemies appeared on the screen—they’d collectively decided not to make them look Galra, not yet, in case that caused too much confusion for Lance. Instead, they looked kind of cute, little floating blobs with little faces that . . . then turned into vicious snarls while they tried their best to kill Lance.

Blue shuddered with the impact as the blobs threw themselves at her and Lance worked out how to attack. He only missed once. And then—

It was impressive, and terrifying, and made a very weird feeling sit upright in Keith’s chest, making it hard for him to remember to breathe.

Lance had always been their sharpshooter; it was clear that during his time with Lotor, Lance had been able to put in a lot of time to keep those skills fresh.

The longer the simulation lasted, the more comfortable Lance became with the controls, to the point where Allura and Keith were practically sitting on either side of his seat, hanging on for dear life. Speeding and flipping, soaring and blasting, Blue roared and blobs fell beneath her wrath. Lance manipulated the controls not quite like he was familiar with them but like he _knew_ they were his.

The last blob fell, dissolving in a shimmer of rainbow sparks.

Lance landed Blue, a little too rough, and the simulation ended. Statistics flashed up on the screen—not perfect, not terrible at all—and Lance pulled his hands from the controls, settling them in his lap. Lips parting, his teeth flashed for a moment before he let out an odd sound—it lasted just a moment, but it sounded like the beginning of a laugh.

Keith pulled his hands from the pilot’s chair—from Lance, leaving his shirt rumpled, and lay back on Blue’s cool metal floor. It still felt a little like the universe was spinning too quickly around them; Red didn’t fly like that at _all_.

Or could she? Maybe it was only Keith who didn’t fly that way. 

“I liked that,” Lance said.

“That was very well done, Lance,” Allura said. Keith was gratified to hear she was a little out of breath as well, though she did manage to get back to her feet. “And on your first run as well. We should have expected you’d be a natural at it.”

“Blue helped,” Lance admitted. “I already know how to target things. And—”

“Are you actually being modest about this?” Keith asked, propping himself up on an elbow. _Lance_ , trying to dismiss the fact that any of them would have crashed and burned within moments if they’d suddenly lost all their memories of flying? Lance missing out the opportunity to rub in Keith’s face that he was clearly the superior pilot?

“I want to go again,” Lance said, squaring his shoulders, already reaching for the controls. “I want my score to be perfect.”

He didn’t say it like he was afraid or had something to prove; his eyes narrowed with determination, and—and glee. Which _probably_ meant he’d just fly faster.

Keith groaned, tipping his head back onto the floor.

\- - -

“Hello, Keith.”

“Hi, Lance.”

Every afternoon, Lance came to find Keith, in the lounge or in his room or on the training deck, where Lance still wasn’t allowed unsupervised. He’d come up with his fingers knotted together, lips pressed tight, the slightest curve hiding in the corner of his mouth.

“Okay,” Keith said this time, from where he was sprawled across one of the couches. He’d had his datapad propped against his stomach but lowered it to give Lance his full attention. “Out with it. Go.”

“Are you . . .” Lance pulled in a deep breath, brow furrowing. “Are you from . . . No. Are you Tennessee?”

Keith wanted to hit himself in the face with his datapad.

“Because you’re the only ten I see,” Lance said. And then it happened, the same as it did every time Lance said—or at least tried to say—one of the cheesy pick-up lines Pidge insisted on teaching him. One every day until they’d run out, and she’d already assured Keith with a _very_ evil grin there was a whole universe of pick-up lines she’d yet to explore.

Lance smiled.

It wasn’t an egotistical grin. He wasn’t pleased with himself or cocky or _really_ trying to flirt. No, not really. Keith’s heart gave a disobedient kick in his chest.

Lance was happy, because he thought he was learning to be the person he’d once been. Because Pidge cackled so hard whenever she taught him a new line and even Allura had started laughing about them, though she never really understood their meaning. Because he’d been taken and changed and _hurt_ and all he wanted to do was make the others smile.

It wasn’t fair. That Lance had lost so much and all he wanted to do was . . . give. He even seemed happy whenever Keith grumbled and pretended to hate the pick-up lines, as if he could see right through him.

“That was terrible, Lance,” Keith said.

“I know,” Lance agreed heavily. “I don’t even know what a Tennessee is.”

\- - -

“Are you awake?”

The words were soft but still enough to draw Keith into consciousness. He’d been teetering on the edge of sleep. Even before they’d lost Lance, he’d been something of an insomniac. After getting him back—after spending every night in Lance’s room so he wouldn’t need to be alone, after Allura had found Keith a slim mattress to shove against one wall, so short his ankles hit the end of it—Keith slept lightly. Most nights, Lance seemed fine. Sometimes he wanted to leave the lights on; most of the time, he just wanted the reassurance of another person there, just a few feet away. Because if Keith was with him, he wasn’t on Lotor’s ship. He wouldn’t be hurt no matter when he woke, no matter what he did or said or thought.

_Keith_ thought that Lance had begun to realize he was safe.

“Yeah,” Keith grunted, turning onto his side. Lance never seemed to mind that Keith went to sleep mostly fully clothed. Never seemed to realize, actually, which probably just meant he hadn’t yet figured out it was something . . . strange. “What’s wrong?”

It was a terrible thing to admit, but they’d all been preparing themselves for Lance’s nightmares. Shiro, especially. Something about how the worst came out at night, once you accepted you were finally away from the person who’d hurt you. But Keith hadn’t heard any labored breathing, any restlessness. No . . . screaming. In fact, he was pretty sure Lance hadn’t been asleep, either.

“Nothing,” Lance said too quickly. It made Keith prop himself up on an elbow to look over toward him, but this had been a lights-off night, so the alcove Lance’s bed sat in was a void of shadows. “I—I mean . . . I don’t know.”

“That’s fine,” Keith said. Hunk especially had been working with Lance on the whole _feelings_ thing. It meant _this_ , whatever it was that had Lance up late into the night, wasn’t any of the basic emotions he’d learned while living with Lotor. Fear. Anger. Dread. It probably wasn’t happy, either, because Lance had been figuring that out.

Keith hated emotions.

Keith hated _complicated_ emotions.

But he didn’t hate Lance, so he slowly eased himself onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes played tricks on him in the darkness, making it seem like the shadows moved.

“You can talk to me about it,” Keith said.

Sheets rustled as Lance fidgeted on his bed. It’d been strange, the first time Keith had seen Lance wringing a sheet between his hands. It reminded him of the way Lance would bundle himself into a blanket after a hard day of training, worrying at the fabric while the team watched an Altean movie. Some nervous habits seemed to transcend memory.

“I was talking to Pidge . . .” Lance started, then faltered, teeth clacking together.

“Like usual,” Keith said, remembering the way Lance’s lips had curved, cheeks twitching, when he’d found Keith in the lounge. “But, usually, you save the corny lines for the morning.”

“No, it wasn’t about anything like that,” Lance said, refusing to be distracted. That meant it was something that’d really been bothering him, then. “We were talking about . . . you.”

Something about the way he said it made Keith’s heartbeat stutter. _What_ about him? Collectively, they’d agreed it was best not to say anything about Keith being half-Galra, in case that ended up confusing him. Lance had only been hurt by the Galra, who the others were also fighting against, and it wouldn’t matter, in the end, explaining that _some_ Galra were good, because he’d get his memories back, and he’d know. 

Lance seemed to take his silence as an invitation to keep going. “I told Pidge about that game you showed me the other night.”

It’d been a bad night, in a lights-on kind of way, with Lance keyed up and Keith refusing to walk him to the training room. The others had found a weird card game at an alien market months ago, in the time _before_. Not knowing how to play, they’d made up their own rules, and Keith had offered to teach Lance how to play. Reteach him, really. It’d keep his hands busy, his mind focused. They’d played together, flipping cards, silent after Lance had finally understood the rules. They’d played until their eyes burned. Lance had fallen asleep sitting up against the wall behind his bed; Keith slept sitting on the floor with his upper body hunched over the mattress.

Neither of them had spoken about it in the morning. Keith’s cheeks flared, and he was glad Lance couldn’t see him.

“She said it was kind of funny and I didn’t understand,” Lance said. “So I asked her to explain. She told me we didn’t spend this much time together. Before.”

Of course, Keith and Lance had spent time together. Sparred, trained, fought together. Argued in the lounge. Across the dining table. Over their comms. They’d raced down halls or to see who could clean their lion fastest. Together, but competing. Any quiet moments had been with the team as a whole. There hadn’t been any times like . . . this.

“Am I bothering you?”

“What?” Keith shot upright again, impatiently smacking aside his blanket, frustrated now that he couldn’t see Lance’s face. Because he _could_ hear the strain in his voice.

“You have your own room and I—I never let you sleep in it. And I like when I train with you, or when you help me with the simulations. I like flying with you in Blue, even if it isn’t real, and Pidge said we never did that before, either. I’m with you a lot of the time, so I just—if I’m bothering you, if you don’t—”

“No,” Keith said, and it was sharp enough he heard Lance gasp, but he had to keep going. It felt like the air between them had grown too heavy, too close; like they were losing oxygen and if Keith couldn’t spit out his words, disaster would strike. It felt horrible. “You aren’t bothering me.”

“I just—”

“I wasn’t finished,” Keith interrupted. “Maybe things were different between us before, but I don’t care, Lance. I don’t even care if things go back to the way they were once you get your memories back. If you want me to leave you alone, just tell me. Anytime. But I like spending time with you. And I like being in here with you. Because if I wasn’t, I’d just be worried about you. If spending time together helps you feel better . . . it helps me, too.”

It fell quiet between them, just the faint, prickling sound of Lance’s nails picking at his sheets.

“So, if that’s the only thing keeping you up, go to sleep,” Keith said. With a huff, he lay back down a little too quickly, thumping against the thin mattress. 

_Would Lance really mind it, this, when he had his memories back? Would he think this was strange?_

_What would he think of Keith?_

The thoughts swirled and circled as quick as the shadows overhead.

“Thank you,” Lance said minutes later, so quietly Keith could have imagined it.

\- - -

Lance improved. It wasn’t perfect.

One day, Hunk dished up a new food goo concoction that’d turned a sickly shade of grey but tasted sweet, like it’d been filled with sugar. Keith glanced over toward Lance when he realized he hadn’t lifted his fork; he stared down at the plate, the goo piled onto it, and his golden eyes were . . . blank. Like he stared down at the table and saw something—somewhere—else. After a moment, he lifted his head, catching Keith’s gaze—smiled at him, the kind of false smile Lance had adapted when he’d realized that was the sort of expression to mimic whenever he wanted to try to make the others worry less about him. Still, he barely touched his dinner, and refused to talk about it, and Hunk never made anything similar to that again.

There were problems reintroducing Lance to the training rooms, frustration and panic from him whenever they forced him to stop starting new simulations when it looked like he was ready to collapse from exhaustion. Eventually, Keith realized it was easier if Lance sparred with one of them, because Lotor had only ever had him in training against bots. Gladiators, sentries—they didn’t fight the same as Paladins. Lance didn’t quite settle into the same mindset when faced with a living opponent. It was harder to defeat Lance than it’d once been; his hand-to-hand had improved to an almost terrifying degree. They beat each other down to the training room floor again and again, collecting bruises—trying to keep Lance grounded and present and _there_.

Smaller things startled Lance, too. Catching an unexpected glimpse of Shiro’s prosthetic arm, purple light flashing. Raised voices, even if it was only Hunk and Pidge fighting over how terribly she cheated in every game she played. 

Keith noticed quickly how Lance hated to be alone. If he couldn’t go somewhere with Keith—or couldn’t convince him to go somewhere, like to the training deck—he’d stick close to Hunk as he cooked. Pidge while she tinkered with some electronic. Allura, on the bridge, or Shiro, meditating in one of the lounges. Bad things seemed to happen, when Lance was left alone. He’d spend hours on the observation deck and forget to eat anything. He’d wander to Blue, and get partway through the Lion’s launch sequence before someone could arrive to stop him. More than once, Keith found him panicking, certain he was meant to do _something_ , that the rest of them would be angry at him for forgetting, for failing—thinking he was _wrong_.

They tried not to leave Lance alone, anymore.

They tried not to think about how they weren’t any closer to recovering his lost memories.

\- - -

Eventually, they had to let him fly. Lance was made for the stars, and Blue was getting impatient. After all, she’d nearly convinced Lance to take her out for a spin without the others knowing, _several times_ , despite his obvious concern when it came to doing things he thought the others would be upset about.

“You know,” Lance said, tilting his head to the side. “I thought it’d be . . . taller.”

They eyed the vague indent left in the wall in the Lions’ hanger. The impact should have killed him, after he’d reconnected with Blue. Coran said he’d be able to repair it, eventually, but for the time being they were left with a Lance-sized dent.

Pidge groaned. “Not this again,” she scoffed. “Next you’ll be going on about you and Keith, because you make everything a competition between you two.”

“What?” Lance asked, brow furrowing, before he glanced over toward Keith. He shrugged—maybe they were a _little_ competitive, but they’d really slowed down on all of that lately, and— “I’m taller than Keith.”

“What?” Keith felt himself scowling before he even really understood what was happening. “Of course you aren’t, you—”

“Yes, I am,” Lance said, with no heat behind the words—just pure confidence. That made it even _worse_.

“No! No, Lance, you’re so—”

“Tall. I’m tall, because I’m taller,” Lance said. “Taller than you.” 

Keith’s teeth ground together in a way that would make Shiro give him a lecture on how that sort of thing wasn’t healthy. 

“Lance, I swear, you—”

“Okay! That’s enough of that,” Hunk squeezed between them, wrapping an arm around Lance’s shoulders. “Who’s ready for some flying? I am! Uh, I think. It’s been a while since I’ve had to endure Lance’s style of flying.”

Hunk looked a little uncertain as he led Lance away, toward Blue, but Keith couldn’t focus on that. Instead, he spotted the way Lance’s lips curved, teeth flashing—

Was he _laughing_ at Keith?

Ugh. Good to know Lance was _always the same_.

They’d decided Hunk would accompany Lance for his first real flight, out of the hanger. It wouldn’t be good for him to go solo, not yet. He’d be a much calmer presence than Keith, and comforting enough to keep Lance grounded, just in case.

Keith knew Lance could do it, and he hadn’t needed those practice sims to assure him Lance was still a natural at flying. But there was always the thought, the worry, that _anything_ could . . . set him off.

Which would be a horrible thing to happen, mid-flight.

“I’ll see you all later,” Lance promised the Paladins gathered in the hanger to see him off, waving over his shoulder. Hunk followed, uncertain, nervous, disappearing as well into Blue.

Pidge had patched them into the comms, so they’d be able to listen from just outside the hanger. They waited, while Lance successfully took off, while Allura directed him through a few basic maneuvers, while Hunk claimed not to be bothered by Lance’s speed and they could hear from the tightness in his voice that he was _at least_ a little nauseous. They heard Lance’s sigh, when Allura told him to come back, congratulating him—but Lance didn’t seem pleased to return to the hanger. He didn’t seem to want to _stop_ , and Blue rumbled annoyance as well, but they made it back.

They’d done it.

Hunk hurried out of Blue, hand pressed over his mouth. But Lance—Lance walked with a kind of confidence that felt familiar. Slow, steady—catching Keith’s eye, lifting his hands to shoot him a pair of teasing finger guns. Tipping his head back, Keith laughed—light, because he was relieved, because it was hard to miss the old Lance when this one was so similar, so bright. He belonged in the stars.

He didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t—

The hanger flashed red.

A moment later, the comms blared, calling them to the bridge. A distress signal had been located. Someone out there was calling for Voltron, and they needed to answer. They needed to help. So it didn’t matter, whatever he would have said to Lance, because the few times there’d been an emergency over the past few weeks, Lance had stayed behind. They’d told him he could do what he liked, but it usually meant he stayed in his room, because he knew that made the rest of them less nervous. He knew one of them would come to get him, when it was over and the mission completed and they were safe, again.

But this time, Lance caught Keith’s elbow. Gently tugged at his jacket.

“I’m coming with you,” Lance said. Sternly. _Confidently_. Not like it was a question. Not like he asked for permission.

Keith hesitated.

It felt so much easier, when he knew Lance was safe in his room. Knowing he couldn’t be taken, again.

“Okay,” Keith said with a nod, and together they went to the bridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay with this update! BUT we're getting into the action now kids. We couldn't just keep Lance cooped up safe in the castleship forever, could we? Especially because now one can figure out how the heck they'll help him remember them. I hope ya'll are ready for the Return of the Angst!
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Thank you all so much for the comments on the previous chapter--I read and love all of your comments, so thank you for taking the time to read and let me know your thoughts and predictions!
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	11. We'd Never Part

_“The muzzle is only temporary,” Lotor said, pulling his fingers through Lance’s hair. The touch was gentle, soothing; Lance shifted his head, following the motion. “Until you remember to respect what is given to you.”_

_Pain thrummed through his veins, hummed in his bones, sent shocks down his spine. He’d been bad and wrong and punished, and he’d deserved it, and Lotor was there because they were friends. Good friends. Lotor knew what was best, and—and—_

_It meant he deserved it, whenever he was hurt. That he’d earned that pain._

_Except . . ._

_Except he had more than one friend, didn’t he? Lance had several friends, and only one of them hurt him if he did something wrong. If he fought or spoke or looked any way that wasn’t wanted._

_“What’s that?”_

_Lance hadn’t spoken aloud, obviously, freezing metal shutting his jaw tight, but Lotor loomed overhead, lips thinning as if he could hear Lance’s thoughts. He could, couldn’t he? It’d always seemed that way._

_“Blue,” Lotor sighed, reaching for Lance’s hands. Instead of pressing them against the muzzle—reminding him of how terrible he’d been, of what he’d need to prove to get the thing removed—Lotor tugged Lance to his feet. “I always knew you’d fall apart without me there to guide you.”_

_But that wasn’t right, was it?_

_Lance had survived without Lotor. He’d been happy in a way that hadn’t existed on Lotor’s ship. He’d found friends who’d only laugh and smile and help him, if he ever made a mistake._

_Pinching Lance’s jaw between his fingers, pinching the muzzle, Lotor turned his head. They’d been in Lance’s room, sort of. The cot he slept on wasn’t there, so Lance didn’t remember that he’d been laying down on. The lighting seemed too dim, the walls too tall. But all of that was forgotten when he realized the back wall was no longer solid; instead, metal bars stretched across it, allowing him to see through to the room beyond._

_“Look,” Lotor commanded, but Lance already stared into the cell, at the huddled figure in red and white. “It’s only right to punish the ones who’ve broken you.”_

_“Keith,” Lance said, or tried to say, so all that emerged was a muffled grunt. He wouldn’t look upward. He didn’t move. In the distance, Lance thought he heard screams. Pidge. Coran. Shiro. Allura. Hunk. Vocal cords strained with pain. He didn’t know how he recognized the sounds of their misery, but they were there with him, on this ship. They were all there. Lotor had found them, because of course he’d found Lance, and of course he was back and being bettered and—_

_And—_

_Was Lotor making them better, too?_

_“I don’t need the rest of them, Blue,” Lotor said, voice faraway. Quieter. Lance glanced over his shoulder, realizing the metal bars sat between him and Lotor now. Glanced down, and saw Keith collapsed by his feet. “I only need you.”_

_Lance tried to say Keith’s name, over and over; he knelt beside him, touching a shoulder to turn him, gently, gently, until he could see Keith’s eyes were scrunched tight. Closed like he avoided seeing Lance on purpose. Like he was scared._

_Lance wanted to say that it’d be alright—that he knew this, knew Lotor, knew the routine. He could teach Keith—teach all of them. How to make it hurt less. How to be better. But then he glanced down toward his own hands and realized one clutched a syringe, dark liquid sloshing back and forth. Back and forth. His arm moved, and Lance couldn’t stop it. The needle stabbed into Keith’s neck; his eyes opened with a gasp. Beautiful, incredible, galaxy eyes, suddenly too dark like black holes, pulling Lance inward._

_Lance pushed down on the plunger._

_He tried not to._

_He cried when Keith let out his first scream._

Lance jolted awake, head nearly knocking against the top of the alcove where his bed was settled. _His_ bed, because he was on the castleship. The lights were off, but there was just enough of a blue glow for Lance to recognize reality. Just enough to see Keith sprawled on his too-small mattress, sound asleep.

Asleep, and safe. Lance hadn’t woken him, because while he’d kicked away his sheets, his jaw remained locked, tense, like there was metal wrapped around it. Breathing hard, he pressed his hands against his cheeks, smoothing his fingers across his skin, over his lips. Reassuring himself that nothing was there. Relaxing enough to part his mouth, hiss in a breath through his teeth.

He was okay.

He was . . . okay.

Lotor wasn’t there.

But Lance had hurt Keith. He stared down at his empty hands, fingers twitching, before he eased off his bed. A week ago, he wouldn’t have dared to leave it until morning, when Keith was up and helping Lance make decisions. Now, his caution helped, because Lance moved silently, kneeling on the ground. Lowering his head, just enough to assure himself Keith was still breathing.

That he hadn’t . . . That nothing had happened.

Relief felt like an icy chill, wrapped around Lance’s spine.

He stretched out on the floor, lanky limbs protesting the cramped space. But Lance remained there, exhaustion burning his eyes, adrenaline thrumming, close enough to keep an eye on Keith. To make sure he was okay.

\- - -

They didn’t know what to do with him. 

It seemed obvious from the way they watched him from the corners of their eyes while Allura briefed them on their mission. One of their planetary allies was in distress because a Galra cruiser had been spotted in their system, headed their way. If the cruiser managed to land their soldiers, or gather enough firepower to threaten their allies into submission—Voltron would lose one of the few planets out there currently willing to join them in the fight.

Lance understood what they were saying, even if he didn’t remember participating in the making of any of these alliances. When he tried to think of negotiations and accords and anything _but_ battle tactics, his mind came up blank. Diplomacy had never been one of Lotor’s lessons. 

All that mattered was that Lance was included in the ‘we’ Allura continuously referred to. _We_ are the ones they turn to for protection. _We_ are going to stop the Galra. _We_ are going to win.

He excelled at fighting, and strategizing, and winning. Victory or death. Lance was confident, and thrilled that despite their glances, the others seemed confident in him, too.

“Do you think we should . . .” Pidge’s voice trailed off, but she’d reached toward the blue and white bayard resting on one of the pilot’s chairs on the bridge. It remained there except for the brief moments Lance had been allowed to partner with Blue for the simulations, and whenever they flew together. She didn’t seem to need the bayard for him to be able to use her controls, so he still wasn’t quite sure what he was meant to do with it. He’d seen the others using theirs, whenever he was allowed supervised time in the training rooms. Their bayards seemed to work as weapons; Lance’s only ever sat in his palm, strange and cold and disconnected.

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Allura said. “We’ll give him something from the armory. Keith?”

“Yeah. On it,” Keith said, gesturing for Lance to follow him while Allura dismissed them, calling back Shiro to talk to her for a moment longer.

They were quiet, walking through the halls of the castleship. Past the kitchen and lounge and training rooms, to a place Lance hadn’t been allowed in, before. Weapons—he knew those better than almost anything else. Guns and swords and spears lined the wall. Weapons he didn’t recognize, ones he didn’t have the words for, sat in lined cases. Knives and blades of all sizes, blasters and—

Keith was watching him, gauging his reaction. Probably checking to see if Lance would end up kneeling on the ground, pulling out his own hair. But he didn’t feel panicked; his breathing remained steady, strong.

Part of him had been longing for a fight. Longing for a chance to prove his strength, to let out some of the worry and frustration building inside him. The undercurrent he wanted to smother until it looked like something less than fear.

Keith pressed on the wall, on a panel Lance hadn’t noticed beyond all that gleaming metal. It opened, revealing rows of dark bodysuits, shining white armor and helmets.

“It should conform to you to make a good fit,” Keith said, peeling a suit from a stack and tossing it in Lance’s direction. He stared down at it, then at the white helmet clutched between Keith’s hands. All that white—it made his head ache.

Keith helped him into the armor, buckling it in place. Where the plates met, it faintly glowed the same aqua blue found in so many parts of the castle. Lance . . . matched. He stretched his fingers inside his glove, realizing he _liked_ feeling like he belonged. Maybe it didn’t matter in that end, that he couldn’t remember how he’d fit in with the others in the first place.

“You remember the plan?” Keith asked, and Lance wanted to roll his eyes like Pidge often did because _of course_ he remembered the plan. The most important thing for him to commit to memory since he’d ended up on the castleship. He could have done most of it blindfolded and half-asleep.

“Fly in Green. Infiltrate the ship. Cover Pidge while we head for the engines. Sabotage the engines. Get out,” Lance said. That was the simplified version, sure. But it seemed to satisfy Keith, because he nodded and pointed toward the weapons.

“Then take what you think you’ll need,” Keith said.

_“There are ten enemies ahead armed with blasters. If you trigger the alarm and they come for you, what weapons will you need to defeat them? How would you kill them?” Lotor asked._

_“What if they’re shorter and quicker?”_

_“What if they’re taller, stronger?”_

_“What if they used a knife?”_

_They ran scenarios together, endlessly. Over and over and over and over._

So Lance already knew what he needed. It was easy to choose. There were so many places to hide weapons in the armor he’d been given. But most of all, best of all, he took one of the guns.

When they arrived on the bridge, the others were waiting. Lance blinked, then frowned.

Green. Yellow. Black. Red. _Pink._ Allura’s armor threw him off, but the others wore a color corresponding to their lions. Lance glanced down at the armored plates protecting him, smooth and hard and _white_.

“We had blue armor, once,” Keith said quietly.

\- - -

Pidge flew faster than Lance had expected but calmer, with purpose. The cloaking on her Lion allowed them to get right up alongside the Galra cruiser. There were a few harried minutes while Pidge hacked through a set of bay doors, Allura’s foot tapping anxiously against the metal floor. Then, almost too suddenly, they were inside.

Lance drew in a deep breath. His heartbeat steadied, hands gripping the gun he’d taken. This was what Lotor had prepared him for.

But . . . not really. In those scenarios, in those strategizing sessions, Lance had usually been fighting alone. He’d certainly never been required to think about what he’d do if he fought alongside friends. 

What if something happened to one of the others?

What if he wasn’t strong enough?

Green lowered her head. The others were ready. There was no time for worry.

Shiro, Allura, and Hunk—they were headed toward the communications hub to see if there was any info to steal from the Galra. Any advantage they could gain in this war Lance had suddenly found himself thrust into. Lance, Keith, and Pidge—they were going for the engines. They needed to destroy this cruiser, slowly enough to give them time to get the hell off the thing before it blew to pieces.

Lance had to admit he was a little curious about that part. His made-up scenarios had often involved things like explosives, but . . . He’d never been able to see a good explosion before, himself. Lotor hadn’t allowed things like that in his training.

He gripped his gun a little tighter. He needed to focus. He needed to be strong.

“Keep your comms open,” Shiro instructed. “If any of you miss a check-in, we’re calling the mission off and rendezvousing back at Green. We can fight from our Lions if we need to. Watch each other’s backs.”

Although he didn’t specifically call out Lance, it felt like his gaze landed on him, before Shiro turned and went after Allura and Hunk.

Lance couldn’t grip his gun any tighter.

The metal beneath his boots was dark grey, tinged at the edges by the fluorescent purple that gave everything in sight a sickly sheen.

_Home?_

_Begin simulation._

Keith was staring. Keith was scared. Lance was strong.

“Up this hallway,” Pidge whispered into their comms, pausing at an intersection. Lance listened hard, but apart from the buzz of the lights and thrum of engines underfoot, everything was quiet. They hadn’t anticipated much security in the area; most on the vessel would be prepping for their imminent attack on the planet they were headed toward.

They made a right, then two lefts. Keith signaled for them to stop, once, ducking into an alcove. Lance and Pidge pressed into a doorway, barely tucked out of sight. Ahead, a pair of sentries paced past, but their strides seemed purposeful, destination elsewhere. No alarms had been tripped; as far as the Galra knew, nothing was amiss on their ship.

_Lotor impatiently called off the sentry, but only after Lance knew he wouldn’t be able to pick himself off the floor. They’d been escorting him to the training rooms when, suddenly, they’d attacked. Fists swinging, metal whirring. At first, Lance had only done his best to protect his head, digging his hands into his hair. Then he’d spotted Lotor standing at the end of the corridor, watching from the shadows cast by the dim purple lighting._

“Fight,” _Lotor had encouraged him._ “I want to see you win.”

_And Lance had tried, bare fists against metal. Each hit sent stinging vibrations up his arms, rattling his bones. It hadn’t hurt as much as he’d expected. His knuckles dented the sentries’ bodies and when he dug in with his fingertips, he managed to pull off a piece, sparks flying. He was . . . different. Changed. Better._

_But the sentries weren’t living, so they did not stop when injured. They did not hesitate when one grasped his arm, didn’t pause when the bone snapped. Didn’t react when he screamed, involuntarily, only took the chance to hit him beneath the chin when he dropped to his knees. And hit again. And again. And again. Until the purple corridor was spotted with black and Lance thought it wouldn’t be so terrible to slip away, just for a little while._

“Go,” Keith’s command was sharp, compelling enough that Lance’s body was in motion before his thoughts had properly reoriented. He had Pidge just on his right—his mission, his purpose, his objective to keep her safe—and a weapon to ground himself. 

Friends around him and elsewhere on the ship, who worried he’d be hurt, who weren’t testing him.

“Hang on,” Pidge said and Lance stopped when she paused. He placed himself between her and the rest of the hallway while she scanned her datapad, eyes narrowing behind her visor. “There’s more movement up ahead. A lot of it. That’s why we haven’t run into much activity so far.”

Lance pressed his lips together. Strategically it made sense, though it did mean the Galra would lose some chance at an advance warning of danger. If they knew the enemy would only want to infiltrate a few key sections of the ship, keeping those areas well-guarded meant they’d have a higher possibility of keeping anyone out while they planned an assault. 

“Is there a way around?” Keith asked. “Get us an alternate route.”

“I’m calculating that now,” Pidge said in a tone that seemed specially designed to say _What did you think I was busy doing here?_ “But this is the quickest way, and the others will probably set off some kind of alert soon—”

And there was no point in the others gathering any intel if ultimately they wouldn’t be able to sabotage the ship. _That_ was the more important objective. Lance’s brow furrowed.

“We’ll set it off ourselves if we try fighting our way through,” Keith pointed out. “How much time do you need when we get to the engines?”

“Not long,” Pidge said. “I already have the coding figured out. I just need to plug in for a minute. Maybe two.”

Keith turned, glancing toward Lance. His jaw was already set.

“We could do it,” Lance shrugged. “I’m fast enough.”

His lips twitched when he saw the way Keith’s eyebrows drew downward. Not so much accepting Lance’s challenge of whether _he_ was fast enough, but considering it.

“Uh, well, we have no time to waste, anyway,” Pidge said. “A squad of sentries is headed this way.”

_When Lance stood over the sparking remains of the sentry, Lotor smiled._

“Pidge, keep behind us. We’ll get you a path straight to the engines and keep them held off long enough for you to do your thing,” Keith said. “Ready, Lance?”

“Yes,” Lance answered, and something eased in his chest. Not just because he knew this was what he was good at—what he was made for—but because he was certain if he’d said _no_ , neither of them would have minded. They would have let him stay in that hall. They would have let him go back to Green.

Keith’s bayard flashed, transforming into a sword, unmatched to the one he held in his other hand. Black and gray and purple, just like the ship around them.

Side by side, they swung around the corner. Lance already had his blaster trained on one of the sentries when the group paused, alerted to the intruders at last. Lifting their weapons. Assessing, assessing—

There were five, filling the corridor, crowding it enough to make them easy to pick off. Blade raised, Keith attacked the sentry closest to him. Lance squeezed his trigger, felling one with a blast so powerful it nearly took off its head. Sparks pinged from its broken faceplate as it collapsed. 

But the one behind it had had enough time to assess, to analyze, to process.

“Blue,” it said, voice monotone and matter of fact and not truly a voice at all.

_Blue learned to watch the sentries carefully, cautiously, because he never knew when Lotor might have programmed them to do something other than escort him across the ship. Something worse._

Hesitation made him slow.

The sentries’ blasters weren’t loud, no louder than his. 

A shot caught Lance in the chest, knocking him onto his back, with black and purple flickering in his eyes and Lotor’s voice caught in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your comments on the last chapter! You help keep me motivated and I LOVE reading your reactions! I'm planning to do a short piece this month to torment Keith for his birthday, but will try to keep to my schedule of updating this every two weeks (or faster if I have the time to save you all from this cliff I've left you on). 
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	12. Don't Leave Me By Myself

_Please please please_

“Pidge!”

“On it!” She swung out into the hall, bayard already activating. The nearest sentry dropped when her bayard flashed, whipping out and wrapping around its legs. It dropped next to the one Keith had taken out, the one that had—

It had—

_Not again._

_He wasn’t losing Lance again._

He hooked his hand around Lance’s shoulder, dragging him back around the corner. Lance’s heels kicked, strikes ringing against the metal floor. His hands scrabbled, twitching, but then they were out of sight—they were safe for a moment as Pidge distracted the sentries. She would be okay. She was strong; she was quick. Keith tried to move his hands faster.

“Keith, what’s going on over there?” Shiro’s voice buzzed through their comms. Right. They’d probably only heard shouting. They hadn’t—they probably hadn’t even heard the blast.

He knocked Lance’s hands aside impatiently, trying to get a better look at his chest. Still moving, still breathing—plenty of time to get Lance to Green, then. Right? It would be fine. He would be fine. He had to be.

“Lance is down,” Keith said. Even to his own ears his voice was suffering, strained. “We’re going back to Green.”

Lance’s hands smacked Keith’s away, this time.

It was . . . bad. The armor they’d given him had taken the brunt of the blast; Alteans didn’t mess around when it came to their weaponry. But it’d been a direct hit from close range, so part of the blast had _melted_ through. There was a burn peeking through charred, splintering armor. Keith couldn’t get a good look at the extent of the damage.

“Lance, I’m going to—” Keith faltered, uncertain, when he finally pulled his gaze away from a smoldering wound to meet Lance’s eyes. They gleamed with the edge of pain, yes, but they weren’t creased with hurt—that was anger, lurking in Lance’s glare.

“Why did you do that?” Lance demanded. His voice was a rasp, harsh and quick, and then his teeth were clenched tight, breath hissing between them as he grasped Keith’s forearm and used that leverage to pull himself upright. “Why—why would you do that?”

“What are you—” Keith paused with a shake of his head, as if that would dislodge his thoughts and make this make sense. Behind him, he heard Pidge grunting, and knew she wouldn’t hold out much longer on her own. “I’ll help you up. Can you walk with me back to Green? We need to hurry.”

But Lance ignored him, fingers splayed on the ground as he gathered his knees beneath him. Using the wall to prop himself upright, he managed to get to his feet. There was a heated flush to his cheeks, something Keith didn’t think came entirely from his injury.

“Why would you stop me?” Lance asked as if Keith hadn’t even spoken. “I can still fight.”

“Lance—” Keith stood, too, reaching for his shoulder. To stop him. To . . . shake some sense into him, maybe, because this was all getting to be too confusing, too concerning. Maybe Lance had hit his head too hard, when he’d fallen, but . . . He looked like he knew where he was, _when_ he was, who he was with. He looked . . .

Lance shifted, pulling a blade from where it’d been hidden within his armor.

_Lance_ didn’t like fighting in close combat.

_Lance_ never allowed his hands to shake when he was in the middle of a fight.

And still. The blade was there. His fingers, wavering.

“Protect Pidge,” Lance said. “That’s the objective. Get to the engines. Destroy the ship.”

“You’re injured,” Keith said, with a bite that . . . reminded him of Shiro. His stern tone whenever Keith was being stubborn, whenever he overtrained or forgot to sleep or spent too long sulking and alone. “We’re retreating. Going back to Green.”

Lance only gave him a brief look, then. It was more than dismissive. It was . . . sizing him up. As if deciding what he’d need to do, if Keith tried to stop him.

Then Lance lurched away from the wall, stepping around the corner.

Keith went after him.

It was obvious from the way Lance held himself, how each step had to pull at the burn on his chest. So he fought efficiently. Methodically. He didn’t fight like _him_.

The blade he’d pulled went into the chest of the nearest sentry, purple sparks flying between them. Lance’s gun lay abandoned where it’d skidded down the hall, but he didn’t go for it, or the sentries’ dropped blasters. Maybe he’d already decided that the pain of trying to contort himself over to pick one up would be too much. Or . . .

Maybe Keith and the others had forgotten how much Lance had changed, after all the time they’d spent apart.

His eyes flashed yellow and golden and dangerous as he pulled on his blade’s hilt, bringing the sentry closer, and wrapped its face in his other hand. His fingers curled, grip tightening, and the metal face crumpled like tinfoil in his grip.

It was a beautiful and terrible thing, to watch Lance destroy his enemies.

He couldn’t fight as fluidly as he would in training; his injury didn’t allow for that. So his movements turned harsh, brutal, precise. Tearing limbs from mechanical sockets. Flattening robotic feet. Using the blade he’d recovered to stab into a sentry who’d been getting too close to Pidge, over and over _and over and over_

“Where are all of you?” That was Allura, now, urgent over the comms. “We’re back by Green. Are you nearly here?”

“Uh,” Pidge articulated, as Lance nudged her back, _gently_ , down the cleared side of the hallway. “Uh—”

“Lance is back up,” Keith said.

“You said he was—”

“I know what I said,” Keith snapped, and fire lit within his veins, and the last sentry fell. A heap of so much scrap metal, grey and black and purple. Lights fading. The floor and walls dented, even the lights on the side of the corridor flickering where they’d been hit by . . . by . . .

“The engines,” Lance said, nudging Pidge again. “Pidge.”

Keith wanted to protest. Lance wouldn’t even look at him.

“Give me five minutes,” Pidge said. “Then we need to get clear of this ship before the thing blows.”

\- - -

The rest of the mission passed in a blur.

Pidge made it to the engines, so quick—so smart—as Lance tried to keep himself between her and the door, and Keith tried keeping himself between Lance and anything else.

Lance, who didn’t hold himself so gingerly anymore. 

Pidge needed to repeat herself, to tell them she was finished twice before they started to move, back to Green. Stepping over the smoking, sparking, crumpled remains of the sentries they’d left behind. Keith kept his bayard ready, but the single time another sentry found them, Lance dropped it with a shot to the head before the rest of them could react.

Shiro, Allura, Hunk—they waited inside Green, voices colliding and melding with anxiety, with concern, as Pidge threw herself into the pilot’s seat to get them out of there. As they saw the twisted, broken mess on Lance’s half-melted chest plate.

“I’ll alert Coran to prepare a pod,” Allura said, already switching over to a private comms channel. Keith saw her lips move, the concerned survey she conducted as her gaze swept over Lance. Usually, that wasn’t the kind of conversation Coran ever needed to have in privacy—but they could all see Lance’s face. They didn’t know what might set him off. 

Lance’s expression was all shadow and steel. He wouldn’t look at any of them.

“Keith, get the first aid kit,” Shiro said, while he reached—gently, with no sudden movements—to take the gun from Lance’s hands. He let him do so without protest, and also allowed Shiro to guide him to sit down on the low bunk at the back of Green.

Keith tore his gaze away, headed for the front near Pidge. They’d stocked all the Lions with what Coran had dubbed ‘human-safe’ first aid kits—well, technically, they were safe for humans, and for Keith. Bandages, medical supplies, any medication that had been tested or compared to their bio scans, proving it could be used for their species.

He tugged the box from where it’d been secured by Pidge’s chair. He decided not to think about Lance’s eyes, or how quickly he’d gotten up from an injury that should have grounded him. If it’d been any of the other Paladins, hit like that, point blank . . .

“How is he?” Pidge asked quietly, while Keith was crouched beside her.

It was tempting to say everything was fine. That was the kind of thing he’d say to Lance.

“I don’t know,” Keith admitted. “I don’t . . . I don’t know.”

He left it at that, taking the kit back to Lance and Shiro, but he could have sworn Green flew a little faster.

With some careful maneuvering, Shiro had managed to remove part of Lance’s borrowed armor. With the plating gone, it was easy to see the ragged hole left in the bodysuit below because of the Galra blaster, edges melted with the heat rather than frayed.

“I’m sure there are some scissors in here, cut that off—”

“Hang on, Keith.”

“Or I could use my blade, I guess, if I have to—”

“Stop, for a second,” Shiro said, and that time there was enough of an order in his voice to force Keith to look up from where he’d been rummaging through the first aid kit. Either they hadn’t organized them well, or he was being _useless_ at focusing, at actually finding what they needed. “Keith.”

Shiro had started tugging at the edges of Lance’s bodysuit, black material falling away easily beneath his hands. One flesh, one metal. Stomach turning, Keith reached to stop him. He’d aggravate the wound—make it worse, and Lance would never let them know he was in pain, he wouldn’t—

It didn’t make any sense.

The skin beneath Shiro’s fingers was angry and rippling, red and pink and hurt, but it wasn’t . . .

It didn’t look nearly as bad as it had, when Keith had dragged Lance back around the corner, certain he’d look down to see that Lance had already left them. Left, again, but this time . . .

This injury looked old. It looked like it was _healing_ , as Keith stared and didn’t know whether he was relieved or horrified or both. When he shifted his gaze upward, trying to meet Lance’s, his friend was still obstinately staring at the ground.

_Did the light in his eyes look a little weaker?_

“How do you feel?” Shiro asked, but Lance, who sometimes still looked convinced they’d hurt him if he did or said the wrong thing, remained quiet.

They’d all been encouraging him to make his own decisions but Keith didn’t need Lance to decide to shut them out _now_.

“Can you tell me how bad your pain is?” Shiro asked. “On a scale of one to ten. Ten being the highest.”

Green hummed around them, speeding toward a healing pod they . . . didn’t need.

“Do you know how this happened?” Shiro asked. He didn’t expand on what _that_ was, though when Keith glanced down again, at where the massive burn should have been, he took half a step backward before he was able to stop himself. 

Already, it looked different. Better. Just during the course of a short conversation. A handful of words, and everything had changed.

“Did you . . . Are you . . .” Keith faltered, as Lance stared down between his toes, as the castleship loomed closer.

_Did you know something like this would happen if you were hurt?_

_Are you okay?_

_Are we ever going to understand what really happened to you?_

\- - -

Back on the castleship, Lance finally spoke.

“I think I’d like to be alone now,” he said when Shiro suggested he still go to the infirmary. Maybe to get into a healing pod. Maybe to get a few new scans from Coran, to figure out what the hell was going on beneath Lance’s skin. The group was so startled by Lance’s quiet but firm rejection that, for a moment, they only stood there blocking the hall. Staring, as Lance made his way to his room—walking easily, like he’d never been injured at all.

“I don’t know if it’s best that Lance is left on his own now,” Allura said, brow furrowing. Her hands pressed together; she kneaded her knuckles anxiously, as if trying to restrain herself from going after him. “It _is_ good that he’s no longer hurting, but we still have such a small understanding of what happened to him, and his quintessence. I worry there may be some side effect to this.”

One they might not discover until it was too late.

Allura could heal. Keith had seen her do so before—she’d done it for Lance, but it’d been a taxing thing, something that dragged at her strength. He wasn’t even confident it was something she could use to help herself. He wasn’t sure this, whatever it was happening with Lance, was the same at all.

“I’ll go after him,” Keith decided, ignoring the look Shiro tried to give him. “I mean, he usually lets me into his room. Maybe he’ll let me . . . I don’t know.”

“Ask him if he wants anything to eat,” Hunk suggested. “Message me if he does.”

“Yes. Please inform us immediately if Lance needs anything,” Allura said. “In the meantime, I will speak to Coran. Perhaps something can be learned from the previous scans he has from Lance’s other visits to the infirmary.”

The others were still lingering, obviously wanting to do something more than sit around waiting and worrying about their friend. After all, that’d been the most they could do while Lance had been missing. This time, he was safe on their ship, but he still felt awfully far away.

Keith jogged after him, ignoring the heavy pull of the armor he still wore, the way his breath hitched, because it wasn’t from exhaustion. He ran because he wanted to get to Lance before he could get into his room. Because part of Keith was afraid he’d be locked out, and afraid of what that would mean.

“Lance! Hey,” Keith called, reaching for his shoulder before he thought better of it. Lance’s footsteps didn’t slow. He didn’t look upward, but didn’t tell Keith to leave, either. “Can you—can you tell me what’s going on with you?”

They stopped outside Lance’s room. There was a quiet moment, before Lance reached for the touchpad.

“We’re—I’m—” Keith huffed with the kind of frustration that made him want to hit something. Kick and punch and tear into the world, until it looked as chaotic and broken as he felt when he didn’t understand how to help one of the only people he actually liked being around. “I’m worried, okay? About you. Did something—do you want to talk about what happened back there? You were . . . really hurt. You look fine now, but—”

“You stopped me,” Lance said, hand scanning, door sliding open. He hesitated a moment on the threshold before stepping inside. When he didn’t immediately close the door behind himself, Keith took that as an indication he could come in, too. “You stopped me when I could have kept going.”

“Because I didn’t know _this_ would happen,” Keith said, door shutting behind him. He gestured to Lance—more precisely, to the warm, pink skin peeking through the hole in his bodysuit. The injury was deepening to brown by the edges; soon, it’d be like . . . nothing had been wrong at all. “You understand that, right? The rest of us, we don’t heal like this. That shot, it should have—it could have—”

“I know,” Lance said as he started to peel off the rest of his armor. Methodically, calmly, like he’d done so countless times beforehand. He _had_ , with Voltron, but those memories were gone, so Keith wondered what Lance was remembering, then. “And I used to be that way, too. Until I was made better.”

His grip tightened over one of the blades he’d freed from his armor, just for a moment, until he set it down gently on the surface of a desk he hadn’t touched since his return. Knickknacks from various planets gathered dust on the corners, the shelves. The tidy row of armor and weapons he laid out was a stark contrast.

“I’m only supposed to when my life is in danger or when the extent of the injury will interfere with the completion of the mission,” Lance said as if it was a recitation. “I needed to protect Pidge. I needed to get her to the engines. So, I . . .”

He gestured down toward himself as Keith’s thoughts stormed. This was something Lance _controlled_? It felt like everyone had assumed this was some kind of involuntary response, a spark of the quintessence manipulated during his time with Lotor. A defense mechanism. A mistake, but a good one. But Lance could have . . . this whole time?

There’d been bruises and scrapes from training that Lance hadn’t healed. There’d been moments he should have been injured, like when Blue threw him across the hanger, and Lance had been _fine_ , really, almost like he was too . . . strong. 

Well. He’d torn apart metal with his bare hands. They’d all known there was something different, something odd, going on with Lance.

Lance sat down on the edge of his bed, clasping his hands between his knees. His head lowered again, but when Keith saw the hard line of his jaw, he realized Lance wasn’t afraid; he was _angry_.

“I could have continued fighting and you tried to stop me,” Lance said. “Even if I’d been unable to heal my injury. I’ve fought through worse. You left Pidge to fight alone.”

“I did,” Keith agreed, and he felt guilty about that, but . . . “Pidge can handle herself for a few minutes. Didn’t you see the sentries she took out while . . . while we—”

“While you thought . . .” Lance’s expression flashed, and agreed Keith was caught by the thought that something was different about him. That his eyes—something had changed with his eyes. “You thought I was weak.”

“No.”

“You thought I couldn’t handle the mission,” Lance continued. “This is everything I’ve been training for.”

“No, Lance—”

His hands dug into his sheets and Keith heard fabric tear. “You thought I couldn’t handle it. You were going to end the entire mission!”

Lance wasn’t scared.

Lance wasn’t afraid.

He was _furious_.

“I’m strong, Keith! I’m _better_ ,” Lance said, shoving to his feet. “Don’t you like me better like this? I’m improved. I’m fixed. Am I still . . . I’m not . . . good enough?”

Reaching outward, Keith only stopped when it looked like Lance would flinch backward. Where had they gone wrong? Where had they failed, to give Lance the impression that they thought he’d needed to change? That he’d needed ‘improvement’?

“Lance, you’re brilliant,” Keith said. “You’re the only Paladin that Blue wants. You’re our sharpshooter. Yes, you’re strong. You’re brave. You’re perfect, the way you are. That doesn’t mean you need to do things on your own. If you need help—if you end up injured, yes, I’m going to be out there trying to help you. That doesn’t make you any _less_.”

“I don’t need help. I need to do things on my own,” Lance said, hands curling into fists. Keith wondered if that grip would have hurt, if Lance would have injured himself, if he hadn’t been so . . . different. “Otherwise I . . . I . . .”

“What?” Keith asked. He tried to remember to be calm, to be more like Shiro. Assuring and kind and soft when he needed to be. Keith felt intimidating in all the wrong ways. “What is it, Lance?”

“Otherwise I don’t understand what you’re all doing,” Lance said. “Don’t you want to keep me this way?”

The metal floor suddenly felt unsteady. “What?”

“You said that you were going to try to help me remember,” Lance said. “But it didn’t work, and that was before you saw what I could do. Who I am, now. So you like me better this way. Don’t you?”

It felt like he’d been hit in the gut, left breathless, unable to speak without his ribs and lungs and teeth aching.

“I thought you liked me better than the old Lance. But then you wouldn’t let me complete my mission, either,” Lance said. His frown unsteadied until it smoothed over, expression as blank and horrifying as it’d been when they first found him. “So if you didn’t like the old me, and you don’t think I’m strong enough now . . . are you sending me back?”

_Blue. The sentry had called him Blue and Lance had frozen. Keith had been too far away to stop, to help, to shove Lance aside when the blast caught him in the chest._

Maybe Lance thought it’d all been some kind of test.

And if he thought he’d failed . . . 

“Lance, no, just listen—”

“I think I’d like to be alone now,” Lance said, fists uncurling as he sat back down on the edge of the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it _was_ a little mean of me to leave you with Lance getting shot, but look! He's totally fine! If you just ignore his . . . emotional cliffhanger. Oops. Let me know what you thought! I love all of your comments. This one goes out to the few of you who noticed that after they first got Lance back, they haven't done anything--in front of him--to try regaining his memories. :D
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	13. A Helping Hand

His stomach clenched tight and empty when he woke. The lights were already on. Lance shifted to sit on the edge of his bed, hands resting loosely on his knees. He felt wrung out, like he’d trained for far too many hours, like he’d failed a test he hadn’t realized had started.

Hadn’t he become the Lance they’d wanted him to be?

He glanced toward the empty mattress on the ground, the one usually occupied by Keith. A red blanket sat folded on the end, unused.

Lance had completed his mission. He’d healed himself so he wouldn’t need to be left behind—or, worse, so the others wouldn’t cancel the mission because of him. He’d learned how to be more like his old self, with the finger guns and the one-liners. Eating whatever he liked, when he liked. Making decisions. With Voltron, Lance had become the perfect balance of the past he couldn’t remember weighing against the training Lotor had given him.

It’d made sense that the others hadn’t tried, really tried, to get back his memories. That was a complication that could ruin all the improvement Lotor had done for them, for _him_ , while Lance had been gone.

He’d thought there was an understanding between him and the Paladins and Alteans. He’d thought they were his friends.

But after all that time, all the training and learning and practice, they’d still thought he wouldn’t be able to handle himself, in the end. They’d thought he was too weak. Their faces in Green, once they’d finally made it back to the Lion, had been a mixture of shock and horror. They hadn’t seemed pleased that he’d healed just fine. That he’d been able to push onward.

His grip tightened on his knees before he lifted a hand, slipping it under his loose shirt to prod at his chest. The skin there was smooth, unbroken. The tingling had stopped at some point overnight after he’d finally succumbed to the need for rest. Healing took up so much energy; it was why Haggar and Lotor had emphasized he was only supposed to use it when it’d suit their needs.

He hadn’t been very good at controlling it, at first. A sentry would hit him too hard or Lotor would knock him down too roughly and skin would break or bruise. Something would flash, hot and almost painful in his veins, surging toward the hurt. It . . . didn’t feel very good, which Lance disliked because he’d often tried his best not to feel anything at all.

They’d punished him, locking a muzzle tight around his jaw, filling his veins with poison. But no matter how many times he’d apologized and begged and promised he’d be good, the next time he trained—the next time his training went too far—the same thing would happen all over again.

It’d only stopped when Haggar had finally changed something in those needles full of molten gold she liked to give him. It’d stopped when they’d started giving him that to drink, too, sometimes, instead of food. It left him hungry, but he didn’t mind, because it helped him be _better_. The heat in his veins stopped responding to the breaks and tears, the blood he left staining every floor. It would awake—burning, screaming, almost angry—only when his life was endangered, and in turn that was endangering the mission. Or Haggar. Or, most importantly, Lotor.

It made sense.

It meant he could always continue.

But the others—they hadn’t seemed to like it. He didn’t know what to do with himself, if he’d disappointed them. He didn’t know what to do with the strange emotion curling in his gut, something he didn’t think he was supposed to feel.

Maybe they would have Lotor come to take him back, after all. 

Lance sat and worried and only remembered that he could have left his room, if he’d wanted to, when someone knocked on his door.

\- - -

It was Allura, and there was so much strain lingering near her eyes that Lance immediately looked away, down between his bare feet resting against the metal floor. He’d taken a terrible tone with the Paladins after the mission. Making his own decisions didn’t mean he was allowed to be rude. Then he’d broken the routine, his new routine, and perhaps they’d think that meant _he_ was broken as well—and he was, wasn’t he, if he kept forgetting the rules of this place? Forgetting that he could _leave_?

Would he ever remember anything?

“May I sit and speak with you for a moment, Lance?” Allura asked. When he nodded immediately, she cleared her throat. “You do not need to listen, if you would prefer I leave.”

He glanced upward, nodding more emphatically. This was a test, wasn’t it? About his decision-making. Yes, he could make his own choices, by guessing which ones the Paladins would prefer he make. 

“I’m glad to see you looking so well after our last mission,” Allura said, sitting on the chair at Lance’s desk. He’d never bothered to use it for anything; he didn’t even think Keith sat there whenever they were tucked in here, together. Each trying to figure the other out. She glanced at the scattered pieces of his armor, laid out on the desk. “We were worried about you, Lance.”

“I was never in danger of leaving the mission incomplete,” Lance said.

“Worried because an injury like that could have killed you,” Allura said. “Without your new . . . ability, you could have been seriously harmed. Lance, we would fail a thousand missions, if it meant keeping you safe.”

That made no strategic sense whatsoever.

“ _You_ , in whatever form we may have you. The Lance we knew before Lotor took you. As you are now. Whatever Lance you may be in the future. We don’t care how Lotor changed you, or what memories you do not have—you’re one of us. Your safety is of the utmost importance,” Allura said, before drawing in a long breath. “I believe that is why we’ve failed you so wholly, Lance. By wanting to protect you, I see we’ve only caused you more harm.”

“I’m fine,” Lance said, glancing down toward himself. What damage he’d taken had been his own fault, anyway. If he’d been faster, smarter. Maybe if he’d gone in alone, without allowing Pidge and Keith to place themselves in harm’s way, it would have been alright. 

“Not physically,” Allura said. It was the tone she usually used when speaking to the mice, or to Pidge late at night when she should have been sleeping. “I don’t mean physically harmful, Lance. We don’t want you to think that we’ll like you any less, if your memories are unable to be recovered. But we failed to reassure you that those feelings would not change if your memories _do_ return. What do you think? Recovering those memories will make you . . . less?”

“Haggar removed them because they were no longer useful,” Lance said. At least . . . he thought that was what had happened. He remembered blinking upward, he remembered bright lights, he remembered the way his stomach had churned when he couldn’t recall the color of his eyes. Not even his skin, until he’d looked downward. His face, his _life_ , beyond the minute he’d had to panic and think and try to answer Haggar’s questions. Hadn’t even remembered Haggar’s name, until she’d made sure he’d never forget it. “It made me better. Why wouldn’t—why wouldn’t this make me better for you, too?”

“Because we aren’t focused on trying to change you for ourselves, Lance,” Allura said, tugging a datapad from somewhere within the folds of her dress and holding it loosely between her hands. “We want to make things better for _you_. We want you to be happy. All those things the others were teaching you, those pieces of your past—we don’t mention them because they were the parts we liked best. We want you to remember them because they used to bring you so much joy.”

_Joy?_

He liked the way he felt when Pidge cackled as he told Keith one of the lines she’d taught him. He liked the way Hunk sang in the kitchens sometimes if Lance came in to watch him cook. He liked the way he felt when he woke in the middle of the night and it was dark so he should have still been sleeping, but then he’d look over and see Keith there and remember that he wasn’t alone and—and remember that he was alright.

He’d thought that, with them, he could be alright. Sometimes.

“May I?” Allura asked. When Lance nodded, she came to sit beside him on his bed. Something flickered on the datapad when she swiped her hand across it. “This is one of the scans Coran performed when we first brought you back to our ship. Do you see this, here?”

There was a vague outline there he thought could be him. A pool of blue simmering in his head, then again near his heart. Rivulets of gold trickling through his veins, down his limbs. And just on the edges of the outline, where his skin might be, purple. Jagged, angry purple that reminded him of long hallways and tireless sentries and Lotor, gently pressing a hand against the line of Lance’s jaw.

“Yes,” Lance answered.

“Your quintessence is . . . unstable. I suppose that’s the least I could say about it. I’m afraid to attempt manipulating it, Lance, because I do not wish to hurt you. We would only attempt such a thing if we could be _sure_ it would benefit you and that there was absolutely no risk to it. Unlike that horrible witch, we aren’t here to—to experiment on you. If something in your quintessence is blocking your memory—her magic, still, working on you—then we will find a way to sort this out. But . . .” Allura hesitated.

Lance glanced upward, blinking slowly. The datapad had started to waver, just slightly. 

“The only thing we refuse to do is lose you. We can’t stand to do that again. So we’ve been cautious, and it’s been slow going. We didn’t want to get your hopes up, or—or make you think you should do something that could be dangerous, and . . .” Allura sighed, clenching her fist. The datapad went blank. “And, honestly, I’ve been afraid. Because if we try something, and I’m incorrect, these memories you’re making now—there is a chance you could lose them, too. Perhaps the ones you formed with Lotor as well. And you were so scared when you first got here, so—so different.”

Ah. So there was a version of Lance they’d prefer he wouldn’t be, again. The Lance who did everything he was told and nothing more, who knew they would hurt him. The Lance who’d been . . . wrong.

His brow furrowed. He didn’t really know what to make of this, a team that would like him with his memories, and also without them.

“You couldn’t hurt me,” Lance said. “I’m stronger, now.”

“It would hurt the rest of us,” Allura said. “It doesn’t matter if you wouldn’t remember it. We would. We—we already remember all the ways we’ve failed you, Lance.”

He was quiet, watching the nervous way she moved the datapad in her lap. Watching the floor between his feet, as if it held answers to questions he couldn’t quite form.

He looked again to the empty mattress across his room.

“I’d like to leave my room now,” he said.

\- - -

Not all of their eyes were on him, but Lance knew they were watching. It was a familiar feeling, so he didn’t mind it much. It helped him think.

He and Allura had gone to the kitchen because Lance was hungry and it was far part breakfast. And, most importantly, he could do whatever he liked, now. _Mostly_ do whatever he liked. None of the others were eating, but Hunk had given him a plate of something that tasted sweet and light and good. It didn’t glow. It didn’t make his stomach churn. He chewed slowly, taking his time, because he _could_.

Hunk hovered by the counter. Pidge was doing something to Shiro’s arm, both of them talking quietly. Coran and Keith had a stack of papers spread between them and every so often, one would swap for a different piece. Allura made faces at the mice sitting on the table.

Something fluttered in his chest and it felt like nervousness, which was wrong because he was supposed to be better than that. Lance gripped the cup set before him—then forced himself to release it, because he thought he might accidentally shatter it.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally. They broke off, the stilted conversations—the attempts to pretend they very much weren’t sitting there assessing Lance, for whatever reason. Keith dropped the paper he’d been holding; Hunk came to sit at the table with the rest of them.

“What is it you don’t understand, Lance?” Shiro asked, after a quick glance toward Allura.

Oh. So they all knew she’d come to speak to him, then. Perhaps they’d all had to decide who would come explain to Lance how he’d misunderstood them, all this time. It wasn’t surprising that he’d misinterpreted their intentions; after all, he was stupid.

“All of you,” Lance said. “This.”

That didn’t seem to improve anything for them; if anything, the confusion in the rest of the room deepened. Lance’s hand slipped off the table before he could dig his fingers into it.

“You’re my . . . friends,” he said, and there was a round of vigorous nodding—most emphatically on Coran’s part, who seemed ready to leap across the table—that eased something in Lance’s chest. “My friends now. My friends when I had all my memories, too.”

“Yeah, buddy,” Hunk said. “Me and you go way back. And Pidge too, we all met a few years later. Keith, well, I mean, you knew him, but then—well, once you got to space, uh—yeah. Yeah. We’re all friends.”

Keith glared at Hunk with enough force to be decidedly _unfriendly_. It dissipated, gone as suddenly as if a switch had flipped, when he noticed Lance was looking.

“Then why did you let Lotor take me away?” Lance asked. “Lotor wasn’t . . .”

_Lotor wasn’t kind._

_Lotor didn’t patiently explain anything._

_Lotor wasn’t a friend._

_Lotor wasn’t a good friend at all._

“No, no, Lance, we didn’t let—”

“It wasn’t—”

“We didn’t—”

“We couldn’t get you out in time,” Pidge said. “I’m sorry. _We’re_ sorry. We never meant to leave you behind.”

Lance’s brow furrowed.

He didn’t know why it surprised him, to hear that he hadn’t been sent away.

No, that was a lie. He did know why he thought that way. It was because it was the way Lotor had taught him to think, that no one would have wanted the imperfect version of him, anyway. That he’d been useless. He knew because those were the kinds of things the Paladins never said to him.

“I want to remember,” Lance said. “I want to try to, if—if we can do that. When you think that it’s safe.”

He glanced toward Allura, who stretched her arm across the table—searching for his hand, which he gave for her to squeeze. Her grip surprised him, so gentle, so—

_Weak, Lotor supplied in his head._

But Lance would never describe Allura that way.

“As soon as we can,” Allura promised.

“But I don’t want to wait,” Lance said. “I keep—I keep messing up. Forgetting, even if . . . I don’t lose my memories. But I forget the—the new rules here. How different things are. So I just . . . I want to know.”

“Anything you want to know,” Shiro said. “We’ll tell you.”

“I want to know why I was with Lotor,” Lance said. “And why it took so long for you to come for me.”

“We searched for you every day, Lance,” Keith said. The words were strangled as if they’d been choked out of him, squeezing through his throat. An odd heat lingered in Keith’s expression—it took Lance a moment to decide it wasn’t anger there, but frustrated regret. “I’ll tell you what happened. It was my fault, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter is shorter than usual, and that not much happens in it, but I hope you enjoy the end of Lance's breakdown! (at least... the end of this one) I wanted to get this out to you guys now so you wouldn't need to wait any longer for the next part (among everything else, NaNo has been kicking me lately, but I'm still on track to keep my 2 week update schedule!). Next update will be longer and begin with the important explanation of what happened when they lost Lance!
> 
> Also, I wanted to thank you all for your comments on the last chapter--maybe it's ironic that I don't have the right words to explain how much it means to me, and you all really help me when I'm down. Thank YOU so much for reading!
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	14. Pages of My Mind

He blinked heavily, purposefully, but that did nothing to clear the exhaustion burning in his eyes. Keith didn’t know how long it’d been since he’d slept. It’d been even longer since that rest had been in his room, on a bed, instead of crammed into the tiny cot at the back of Red—or, worse, folded up into the pilot’s seat. Neck screaming when he woke after just a few minutes, startled into action.

The Galra had been running them ragged across the universe. It was fine. They were fine. They were saving people, defending the defenseless. It was worth a little lost sleep to hear the cheers of the liberated planets they left behind. See the happy tears of families reunited, of citizens realizing they were safe. But it was neverending. There was always a new distress signal, a new tip from the rebels or the Blades or even from the leaders of whichever planet they’d just successfully aided that needed to be followed up on. Sometimes that meant they had to keep pushing forward while the window of opportunity was there—while they could stay one step ahead of the Galra. Sometimes that meant stringing along three missions in a row without even the benefit of Hunk’s almost-coffee to keep them sharp.

Red had brushed against his thoughts when Keith left her behind. Concern, the kind that was quick to turn to frustration and anger, filtered through to him. It unsettled as much as comforted him, knowing this giant space Lion cared.

He could rest when they were done. They all could.

The Galra had set up a base on an otherwise abandoned moon. That alone would have been enough to get Voltron involved, to have the place destroyed, but the leader who’d offered up this information had also indicated he thought the Galra might keep some prisoners here. No time to spare, then. Not when there were potentially lives at stake, allies or civilians or who knew who else suffering in those cells.

“I’m still not picking up much,” Pidge said before slapping a hand against the edge of her scanner. Interference from the planet this moon circled—a planet that was _actually_ abandoned, due to hostile conditions not even the Galra seemed to want to put up with—made their tech go a little haywire. “Hard to tell if there are any life signs in there. Could be maintained by sentries, but the prisoners—I don’t know.”

“We’ll have to go in,” Shiro decided. He looked just as tired as the rest of them, dark smudges under his eyes. Moved a little gingerly, too, as if his arm felt heavier than usual. Even so, none of them protested, because Voltron didn’t take chances. They wouldn’t blow up a base that potentially had innocent people captive inside it. “Pidge, can you get a read on the interior?”

“If I could get to the control room, I think I could stabilize the feed and run a full scan. Cut down our time,” Pidge said. “I could get the cameras, too. Give us a visual of the ship.”

“In the meantime, we can start clearing the cells ourselves,” Lance said. Keith flinched when he felt a tug on his shoulder, until he realized Lance had latched onto Hunk, too, shaking them both emphatically. “I mean, most of these ships have the same kind of setup, right? Go to the creepy, scary, dark lower levels and you’re sure to find the kind of stuff the Galra want to hide.”

Splitting up.

Bad things happened when teams split up.

Shiro was already nodding. 

“Keep checking in on the comms,” he said. “If anything seems off, you pull out of there. We don’t need to risk anything because the comms interference might get worse. And if Pidge can’t find anything on the cameras or through a scan, we’re leaving.”

On to the next mission. The next group who needed Voltron’s help. Who’d want to look and stare and use them and keep them busy long enough for Keith to feel less grumpy and more like he wanted to rip something to shreds. He’d kill for an hour to lay in a dark room and do _nothing_.

“You got it, Shiro,” Lance grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll be in charge of these two. Nothing gets past me.”

“Lance,” Keith sighed, though the Blue Paladin was already walking off—probably thinking if he didn’t give the others a chance to say anything, they wouldn’t be able to take away his position as _team leader_ or whatever the hell he’d want to call himself. He’d probably say something about how Keith had a horrible attitude toward authority figures.

“Be careful,” Shiro warned, calling after them, but it felt like he was talking directly to Keith. _Be careful. Don’t do anything reckless. Be a leader, Keith. Set an example_.

Whatever.

Lance slowed enough for Hunk and Keith to catch up to him. The way was lit terribly—purple Galra lighting left an awful lot of shadow behind—but there were no signs of movement. No noise except the metallic echo of their own footsteps, the sharp snap of Keith’s breath in the tight space of his helmet. Bayards held at the ready, they paused by each doorway they passed. Watching each other’s backs.

Storage rooms. Barracks. A dining hall. Empty spaces that looked well-used but held an air of abandonment to them, an emptiness Keith wasn’t sure he liked. He knew what to do with an enemy standing directly before him. Not so much if they were hiding. It felt like they were being watched, but . . . Keith knew that could have been his paranoia speaking.

They descended a few levels before their comms crackled and Pidge’s voice came through.

“We’re in the control room,” Pidge said. It sounded like maybe she was whispering, though the helmet automatically adjusted the volume enough to keep her words clear. Well, clear, but fuzzing around the edges with planetary static. “Doesn’t look like anyone left here in a hurry, but it also doesn’t look like they’ve been here for a while.”

“Stay alert,” Shiro interjected. “Even if they abandoned this base, they might have left some security measures here. Do a quick sweep, then pull out so we can destroy this thing.”

“And then head back to the castleship,” Hunk added with a sigh filled with longing. “I miss Allura. I miss Coran. I even miss his confusing space stories. I miss _food_.”

Keith’s stomach gave a weak kick at the reminder, protesting its emptiness, which he quickly buried away as something to deal with _later_.

“I’ve got you guys on the cameras,” Pidge said. Lance stopped so abruptly that Keith nearly walked over his heels, shooting finger guns toward the first surveillance camera he spotted. “Running a scan for any signs of life. I don’t see anything around you, but there are some rooms nearby marked on the ship’s blueprint. No cameras in them for me to look through.”

“We’ll clear them,” Keith said, waiting and then moving forward as soon as Shiro confirmed. He was beginning to think if they did find anything nearby, it wouldn’t be good. Clearly this place didn’t get much use, so if there _had_ been prisoners there at one point, but they hadn’t been important enough to transfer when they left . . .

“Hunk, Lance. Let me take the lead,” Keith said, shouldering past them. Neither protested too much, although Lance squawked a little about being nudged aside. Something about calling dibs on this mission.

Empty rooms bordered the hallway. Echoing metal, old stains, the lingering oppressive feel of desperation. Keith could imagine the kinds of things that went on in a ship like this, in a place like this. Keith didn’t _want_ to imagine them.

They descended another level.

“—harder to see down here,” Pidge’s grumble came through the comms. Glancing over his shoulder, Keith saw Lance tap the side of his helmet as if that would clear the static from his comms. At least Keith wasn’t the only one having trouble hearing.

“Uh, guys?” Hunk’s voice wavered, sharp and worried.

Infiltrating Galra-made ships or bases or buildings was often confusing because they really had an affinity for building everything to look exactly the same. Identical hallways. Identical lighting. No signage anywhere. It was a logistical nightmare—it was why they needed Pidge.

This level was different. 

The lighting was stronger, sharper. No shadows lingered, though there were still several doors sealed tight. To their right, though, was a wide-open space filled with several tables. Lab tables. Cold and metallic and empty. Keith’s hand held his bayard a little tighter.

The tables had restraints.

The extra lighting came from the tubes—tanks?—at the other end of the room, illuminating a liquid that was a vicious shade of yellow. Narrowing his eyes, Keith was _pretty_ sure he could say those were all empty.

“—okay—there?”

Shiro sounded annoyed, so Keith knew that just meant he was worried.

“Yeah, Shiro, we’ll be up soon,” Keith said, before he turned to the others. “Let’s just check this level and then—”

“Get out of here?” Hunk was a little closer to Keith’s side, poking his fingers together with nerves Keith was doing his best to ignore. “This place is . . . is . . .”

“Giving off mad scientist vibes?” Lance suggested. “Spooky? Like, the start of a horror movie?”

“Okay, Lance, you aren’t helping,” Keith sighed when Hunk started to look a little green behind his faceplate. “Look, I’ll just check down here, and you two keep an eye on these tanks. Okay?”

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Hunk said hesitantly, but Lance and Keith were—well, they weren’t exactly ignoring him, but they were staring at each other.

Lance’s eye twitched in a way that said, _You shouldn’t be going down there alone._

And a slight tilt of Keith’s head said, _Well, I need you here to keep an eye on Hunk_.

A raised eyebrow from Lance. _We’ll be right here to give you backup._

Keith’s lip curved, just slightly—a ghost of a smile, smothered within the confines of his helmet. _Don’t worry. I trust you guys to have my back._

“Alright. Stay alert,” Keith ordered, and he shook his head to clear the static buzz in his ears as he stepped forward.

The first room was empty. And the second. And the third. It seemed like a mirror of the previous level, except these rooms were smaller. Darker. Without any lights, with plenty of places inside where someone could find themselves . . . chained.

Keith moved onward. When he glanced over his shoulder, he could make out Lance, waiting at the other end of the hallway.

“Nothing down here,” Keith reported. “I’m—”

He faltered as a jumbled tone broke through the line—Pidge. Pidge’s voice. Pidge’s words, rushed and urgent and quick.

“—right behind you!”

“Keith!” That was Lance, and he sounded fine, but frantic, and there were rapid footsteps coming toward him. But it was something else that hit Keith in the side, slamming him inside the nearest cell. Grunting, staggering, Keith managed to keep on his feet. But he’d stumbled farther into the cell, and whatever it was that’d hit him blocked the doorway.

It was dark—Keith could only see because of the light in the hall, and the faint glow from his armor.

A sentry. Technically not a living thing, which explained why it hadn’t been picked up on any of Pidge’s scans, but it looked . . . different. Strange. Because it was glowing a little, too. Golden at the edges.

That . . . wasn’t good. 

Keith’s bayard flickered, shifting into a sword as the sentry approached.

“—Keith? Keith, are you—”

Swinging his weapon, it should have cut through the sentry’s arm easily. Instead it embedded in the metal, sticking in place. Grunting, Keith pulled, trying to free it.

“Pidge, Shiro, we—”

The sentry shifted, using Keith’s grip on his sword against him, slamming him against the opposite wall.

“—more down here—”

He noticed the sentry held a blade in its other hand a moment before it sliced toward his head.

Keith ducked, releasing his bayard for a moment to slide down the wall. The sentry’s sword cut a line into the metal where the back of his head had been resting, but Keith was already moving, diving out of the way. There was a flash behind him; his bayard, changing back to its original form, clattering to the ground.

“Oh, no, I think I’m gonna be—”

Keith dodged, weaving out of the sentry’s range. If his bayard had barely done any damage, his fists wouldn’t help. He needed to stay calm, stay quick, and get his weapon back. The sentry moved fast, a flurry of strikes that Keith barely kept ahead of. It was trying to back him into a corner. Away from the exit, from Lance and Hunk, chattering frantically over the comms. Away from his bayard.

He saw his opening when the sentry overextended itself, blade burrowing into the wall. Its limbs whirred softly, mechanics recalculating. Keith knew it might be his only chance.

Vaulting over the sentry’s other arm, Keith raced for his bayard. Boots slipping, lights on his armor wavering. It made the shadows dance.

“—the head. Hit ’em in the head, Hunk—”

_Yes_. His gloved hand closed around his bayard and his momentum took him a little ways forward, still, skidding to a halt just a few feet away from the door. Creaking metal followed him, though, and the sentry was coming—the sentry, still ready to fight, still strange and different and _strong_.

Keith turned, bayard raised, but he’d underestimated the sentry’s speed. 

He’d miscalculated.

He’d made a mistake.

The sword slid between his ribs—quick, deep. Final. It didn’t hurt, which surprised Keith almost as much as the action itself. His bayard, just a little too slow— _just_ inadequate enough—wavered in midair, a few inches separating it from the sentry’s neck.

Then light flashed—bright and blue and illuminating the cell around him, blasting the sentry right where its forehead might have been, if it’d been something alive. It started to fall, but its grip hadn’t entirely dislodged from the sword. Jostling the weapon _embedded in Keith’s abdomen_ , and that was when the pain hit.

“—Keith?”

Was that—him? That noise—that keening, that sounded like something broken and desperate and _yes_ , it had to be Keith, because there were miniature lightning strikes of pain clawing through his skin. Something caught at his shoulders, and Keith realized he was on the ground, not quite sitting, more like slumped, and there was . . .

There was a _sword_ , and it was just—

“No, no. Don’t touch that!” The voice was sharp and sounded so angry that Keith flinched, which only made the world go darker around the edges, and he wondered if he’d done something wrong. He wanted to apologize, but when he shifted his lips, no words would spill out. “Hunk. _Hunk!_ It’s Keith. Keith is . . . he’s . . . God. Okay. You’ll be okay.”

There was a hand in his hair then, the rough brush of a weathered glove against his forehead. Keith’s brow furrowed.

He felt like he was being told a lie.

“Hey, Hunk, I—do _not_ throw up. I need you to take him. You’ve got to—we’ve got to get him out of here, okay? To a pod. There are more of those things coming. I’ll give you two a head start,” Lance said, except . . .

Keith was having sort of a hard time tracking the words, anymore. Having a hard time—

“Hey,” the glove patted his cheek then, and Keith grunted in annoyance. “Keep those eyes open, okay? I want to be able to yell at you for how reckless you are, later. Okay, Hunk. On three.”

On the count of three, Keith lost all sense of himself for a while, because they made him stand. It felt like he blinked, and then he was in the hall, bright light speckled with darkness that wouldn’t dissipate no matter how hard he blinked. But he was supposed to keep looking anyway, right? He felt like someone had told him to do so. Maybe it’d been important. Maybe—

Someone tugged his shoulders, moving him down the hallway, and time skipped forward. 

Shuffling feet.

Blood speckling a metal floor.

Blue and white armor standing tall in a wide corridor, blaster raised.

Yellow and white, tucked under his arm.

Light flashing. Yelling. The noise was so much and so loud and the pain, the pain didn’t seem to want to stop. It lashed out and screeched and protested against the blade invading him, harming him, but even then keeping him from bleeding out because it remained, stuck fast in place.

Keith wanted to drag his heels because—because something felt off. They weren’t moving quickly at all, but something was missing. Something—

But he couldn’t stop moving. He couldn’t see the blue and white, anymore. The shouting grew louder, and the darkness deepened, until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. He tried. He’d tried.

_That_ was what felt wrong. He wanted the glove to return, the soft touch skimming over the top of his head.

But it was gone. _He_ was gone. And soon Keith was, too.

\- - -

Lance was quiet when Keith finished speaking. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, clenched into fists beneath the table. Nor his feet, which twitched with a restlessness that threatened to spread to the rest of him.

He tried to picture a Galra ship that was different from Lotor’s, different from the one where he’d nearly caused them to fail their mission. One where he wasn’t injured, but _Keith_ was the one who’d gotten hurt. Keith, who stared down at the dining table, a muscle jumping at his jawline because he clenched his teeth too tightly. Keith, who only looked fragile because he hadn’t been made better, like Lance had.

The _Lance_ in the story had been . . . worried. That Lance had made mistakes, and been imperfect and different. That Lance had gotten captured.

“I’m sorry,” Keith said. “I’m so sorry, Lance.”

Toward the end of his story—his memory—his voice had gotten rougher, harder, as if he hadn’t wanted to retell it. As if, maybe, he wished that the past could be rewritten to have gone a different way. 

Then Lance might have understood what it felt like to stay to protect a friend. He might have remembered how it felt, to be left behind.

How long had it been, between Keith and Hunk escaping and the moment when Haggar managed to pry Lance’s memories away? How long had Lance had to know he’d been taken—but to also know his friends had been _safe_? Friends he’d forgotten.

Friends who’d come back for him.

“Why are you apologizing?” Hunk asked, and Lance shifted to look at him, too, startled to see that Hunk’s eyes were . . . red. Shining, just like the cheeks he scrubbed at. “It’s my fault. If I hadn’t been such—such a coward, then you wouldn’t have gone down that hall alone—”

“Okay, but I should have seen something on the cameras,” Pidge said, leaning across the table. “That was my one job. To look out for you guys.”

“I let us split up during the mission,” Shiro sighed, rubbing his hand against his forehead. “We should have stuck together.”

“Perhaps if I’d joined you on the mission—” Allura began, but Keith was already shaking his head.

“We only had to pull out so quickly and leave Lance behind because of _me_. If I could have held that sentry off for just a few seconds longer . . . If I just—”

“No.”

The others faltered, fell silent, when Lance spoke. He hadn’t thought he’d raised his voice, but maybe he’d felt this was an important enough opportunity to interrupt. To make decisions.

“I should have been better,” Lance said. His thoughts spun so quickly, so tightly, it _hurt_. “But you’re going to say that isn’t true, right? You’re going to say it isn’t my fault.”

“Of course it isn’t!” Hunk exclaimed.

“No,” Keith snapped. “It should have been _me_ —"

Something strange and warm sat in Lance’s chest, because he’d guessed correctly how the others would react.

“Okay,” Lance said, and his blood thrilled at cutting them off again. His heartbeat raced faster because he thought, maybe . . . There was a chance . . . But he could be wrong. He could be _right_. “None of you blame me, then. So why should I blame you?”

The dining room was quiet except for the creak of Lance’s chair as he shifted.

“If I think it was my fault and you say that I’m wrong, what does that mean when it’s true for all of you, too?” Lance asked. Because _all_ of them couldn’t be at fault. It didn’t work that way. But the way Keith had told the story—yes, Lance could immediately poke a thousand holes in the fabric of their plan. But they’d made what decisions they could in the time they’d had. Any delay and Keith would have died—they would have lost more than just Lance, temporarily.

If anything, the sentries were to blame.

No.

_Lotor_. Lotor was the one to blame. 

Not them. Not his friends.

Not him. Not Lance.

It . . . wasn’t Lance’s fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not me trying to decide how to improve Lance's mental state and deciding that the way to help him heal means retraumatizing the entire team :D
> 
> So here it is! How they lost Lance--at least the parts we know from Keith's perspective. It _is_ Keith's fault that he ended up so close to dead because that was the only way he would have ever left Lance behind. Please tell me what you thought! I loved all of your comments on the last chapter. You all are so kind and understanding and I love your feedback--I hope you're having a wonderful week!
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	15. A Life That's Full

Laid out on his back, Lance’s clasped his hands together over his stomach as he stared up toward the ceiling. The darkness. Some light slipped into his room, blue and faint and illuminating just enough for Lance to see, if he shifted, Keith’s outline. Curled up on the mattress on his floor. Most of him hidden beneath a blanket, apart from an unruly handful of dark hair.

_After_ , when they’d all sat around the dining table, Lance had felt . . . He’d felt too many things.

_Relief_ , like when Lotor would tell him his punishment was over, when he’d remove the muzzle and touch Lance’s cheek and tell him he was getting better.

_Tired_ , like he’d trained for hours past his limit, like he hadn’t been allowed to sleep.

_Content_. Lance didn’t have much to compare that emotion to, only the thought that it was right and true and fit him, in that moment, sitting there surrounded by the Paladins and Coran and Allura. Knowing how much they cared for him. _Him_. Lance. Any version of him they could get. The one they’d lost, the one they’d found, the one he might become in the future with or without his memories. He hadn’t felt the need to reach for any of the jokes Pidge had taught him, the mannerisms Hunk said Lance had liked. Didn’t feel the need for any of those things unless _he_ wanted them, in the future, because unbelievably the people there only wanted him to be . . .

_Happy._

It itched. It buzzed beneath Lance’s skin. It made it so he couldn’t sleep.

He glanced over toward Keith again, who lay so still. Curled up small, tight, but his breathing remained uneven. Lance had been listening too closely.

_“Will you stay with me again tonight?” Lance had asked earlier, worried about another night spent alone in his room. More than that, he feared the waking, opening his eyes and forgetting he where he was. “Will you come back? I’m sorry.”_

He’d been worried Keith wouldn’t want to come back after Lance had told him to leave him alone, the previous night. But Keith hadn’t hesitated—well, he _had_ gone to his room first, to change and shower. Knocking on Lance’s door a few minutes later, talking to him softly about the training they’d do the next day, before the words tapered off. 

Lance wondered if it was odd he knew Keith wasn’t asleep, not yet.

Probably. He moved anyway, shifting to slide over the side of the bed. His comfortable, wonderful, warm bed, so the floor felt chilled as Lance crawled over to Keith. It would be so easy, to grab him, and the thought made him flinch. Lotor had taught him a dozen different methods of breaking a neck, of restraining or breaking or hurting someone, and that was before Lance had been made different. Stronger. He pressed his fingers against the cold floor.

“Hi, Lance.”

He startled, because Keith hadn’t opened his eyes, but then he shifted. Dark hair pulled across the pillow, clinging with static. In the shadows, when they opened, Keith’s eyes were twin pools of blackness. No hint of purple in the dim light.

“What the hell are you doing?” Keith’s voice was rough with the edge of almost-sleep, but Lance knew enough now to listen for the note usually hidden beneath Keith’s irritation. Concern.

“Looking,” Lance said, because that was the first thing he thought of, and it was true. But it wasn’t the exact truth, not what he wanted to say or what Keith wanted to hear, so he shook his head. “You seemed . . . sad, earlier. You were frowning.”

“Earlier?” Keith shifted again, blanket moving downward so Lance could see the entirety of his face. Leaning his weight backward, Lance sat beside the mattress.

“While we were eating. After we told you it isn’t your fault I was lost,” Lance said. They’d started to talk about different things then—movie nights and team bonding exercises, planetary excursions and new foods to try. But, as happened so often around him, Lance kept looking toward Keith. The way even his eyes seemed dulled. Gaze faraway. “Do you need me to tell you again that it’s okay?”

Keith’s eyebrows twitched, and Lance was very aware he was offering something close to the reassurance the others usually gifted to him, but neither acknowledged that.

“Just because it’s in the past doesn’t mean I can’t still feel shitty about it,” Keith said, tucking a hand behind his head. “I know you said it isn’t my fault. I’m going to—I promise I’ll try to remember that. Believe that, eventually. But there are still pieces that . . . hurt. That I don’t want to talk about. You don’t know what it was like. Waking up and learning that you weren’t here.”

Keith’s head shifted again, this time turning sideways so he wouldn’t be forced to look at Lance.

Lance, who was busy rubbing his chest, wondering what kind of hurt it would be if he remembered waking up in captivity. Alone, afraid, on a different ship. No Paladins. No Alteans. No Keith. 

Although he wanted his memories back, Lance thought maybe he’d prefer not to find that one. It had been bad with Lotor, but perhaps not so bad as it would have been if he’d known he hadn’t belonged there.

He shifted, knees sliding against the floor, until his head rested on the mattress, turned toward Keith. Forcing him to see Lance, if only for a moment, but Keith didn’t close his eyes. Didn’t turn away again.

“Sometimes I still feel bad about things, too,” Lance admitted, and it felt weak and strong to do so, all at once. “The parts I can remember. I told you a lot of it. I talked to Coran. But I didn’t understand then that telling you those things could hurt _you_. I don’t like knowing that the things I say can make all of you feel . . . bad.”

“Lance, you don’t have to—”

“I know,” Lance said, and he exhaled. The mattress was soft beneath his cheek. “Sometimes I wake up and I don’t know where I am, really. But all of you remind me. You help me remember that Lotor wasn’t ever really my friend. That makes _me_ feel sad. That, and a lot of other things.”

Keith’s hand was warm, when it snaked free of his blanket and grasped Lance’s forearm, holding tight. Not nearly as strong a grip as Lance had, but probably more reassuring than he could ever manage.

“There are a lot of things I don’t like remembering,” Lance said. Things he hadn’t minded so much, really, until he’d had an alternative to compare them to. “But if there are bad things you’d want to talk about, I think I want to hear them. Because then you wouldn’t have to do the remembering alone.”

Keith was quiet, and Lance didn’t mind; he liked sitting in the silence, together. He liked this even more, the thought that maybe Keith’s frown had blurred a little, uncertain by the edges.

\- - -

When he woke, Lance was half-frozen, half-warm. His right side pressed against metal chilled by space, by the enormity of a castleship that could never quite be fully heated. His left side was hiked up onto a small, soft mattress. His left side pressed against Keith.

Dark hair, close enough to tickle the end of Lance’s nose until he wrinkled it to stave off a sneeze. Hands, wrapped around his arm, hugged it tight against Keith’s chest. As if part of him had been captured, had been saved, and even in unconsciousness Keith didn’t want to let him go.

Keith’s brow was smooth. His frown, gone. He breathed steadily, little puffs of warm air pooling against Lance’s neck. 

Lance woke and remembered where he was, _who_ he was, at least the parts of him that were left.

Lance woke, and wasn’t afraid.

\- - -

“Allura?” Lance hadn’t meant for his voice to be so quiet, but the infirmary was so _loud_. Machines beeping. Metal rattling as Coran shuffled items around. Paladins talking—Pidge, rattling off numbers and calculations Lance didn’t understand. Hunk, naming every little thing that could go wrong. Shiro trying to calm the others, speaking just loud enough to be heard but not so loud that it could be misinterpreted as shouting.

Keith, tapping his foot. Holding Lance’s hand.

Allura. Allura pacing. Allura frowning. Allura _scared_ , arms wrapped tight around her midsection.

It’d been a few days and they thought they were ready. It’d been a few days and Allura feared they’d never be ready. The next time she passed him by, Lance reached out to grasp her arm with his free hand. Reeling her in, pulling her close to where he sat on an infirmary cot. He tried not to hold her too harshly. Lance didn’t like the strength that hid itself in his fingers, sometimes, now, because he knew these weren’t the people he wanted to hurt with the things that’d made him _better_.

“I want to try,” Lance said, tilting his head when Allura wouldn’t look at him. It worried Lance, wormed down within him to the part that thought maybe _he_ usually looked like this, when the others were trying to speak to him. When he was trying his hardest to be one thing and knew he’d be better off doing something else. “I know you won’t hurt me on purpose. I _know_ you don’t do that, here. But if you don’t want to try, then we won’t.”

He spoke like it was a simple thing, because it was. Because that was what the rest of them made it sound like, when it came to decisions. Choices like this, that could be taken out and assessed and peered at and then found wanting because they’d end up with Lance, hurt.

He didn’t think that would happen. He knew they couldn’t be sure. But there was also the truth that there wasn’t much he didn’t know about pain, so he thought that whatever happened couldn’t be worse than what he’d already experienced. Anything they tried would pale in comparison to his punishments.

Allura finally, fidgeting, sat by his side.

“It might not work,” she said, which is what she’d been saying ever since they’d decided to include Lance in these conversations. To let him know they were trying, to show how afraid they were to fail. “It might make things . . . worse. I don’t know. I have never done anything like this before. There is so much that cannot be found in old Altean books or a few virtual tutorials. If there was someone else, someone more experienced—”

“But there isn’t,” Keith said, and he looked angry, but the kind of fierce that said he’d fight Allura if she said anything negative about herself. “We know you’re trying your best.”

She’d gotten better. All of the practice, over the days—the weeks, really, that Lance had been back with them—she’d improved at manipulating quintessence. Testing it. Feeling it. Trying to learn how to fix it. 

But Lance was so strange, even the internal pieces of him he hadn’t thought about until he’d arrived on the castleship. He knew Lotor and Haggar had made him that way.

“Do you think . . .” Lance faltered, and then it was Allura’s turn to peer at him more closely. He wanted so badly not to be afraid—not just because that was a bad emotion, but because he knew that would make the others feel worse. “There’s so much about the past I don’t remember, so I can’t really miss it. But . . . I like the new memories I’ve made. I don’t want to miss these, too.”

“Oh, no,” Allura squeezed his hand, shaking her head hard enough to send stray wisps of white hair floating around her face. “I would not—that is to say—no. I will only be attempting to retrieve what is lost, not manipulating what is already there. I will not touch them. The memories you have left.”

“None of them?” Lance asked, waiting for her to nod. Because he thought, maybe, they might think it was better if he couldn’t remember the time before them. When he’d been lost and with Lotor and improving, all those days and weeks on Lotor’s ship. Lance wanted those memories, mostly because he knew what they’d led to.

“No,” Allura said, with the kind of resolve he’d come to expect from her. “Some of my abilities may be similar to that witch’s, but I refuse to repeat her mistakes. I would not do that to you.”

“Then I still like my decision,” Lance said, glancing between her and Keith. To Coran, fiddling with something plastic because it looked like he’d broken a piece off of it. To Shiro, patting Hunk on the back, who in turn had wrapped his arms tight around Pidge’s shoulders. “I want to try. Please. If we can.”

“Alright,” Allura nodded, and in agreeing seemed to steel something within her. “Alright.”

\- - -

“Focus on me,” Allura said, placing her hands on Lance’s face. Her thumbs skimmed beneath his eyes, in the same place Allura had her pink markings. “Focus on the Lions. On Blue.”

They sat cross-legged across from each other on the cot. Lance’s skin tingled with nerves and magic. He closed his eyes.

And breathed.

Breathed deep, smelling the sharp, clean scent of the infirmary. Heard someone shift nearby, metal creaking. Felt the warmth of Allura’s touch, following it down and down and _down_ until the darkness behind his eyes flared blue. Soft by the edges, strong in the center, a path wide enough for him to follow. Tinged gold in odd places; when Lance glanced behind him, or thought he did because he was simultaneously sure he hadn’t moved, gold flared in his footsteps.

In the distance, purple flashed, crackling and sudden and . . . beckoning.

“Yes, I think we’re meant to go there, too,” Allura said quietly. And she was there beside him, a smear of pink, walking with him toward the purple.

“It’s different,” Lance said, unable to properly articulate what he was thinking, but it felt like here, now, that didn’t matter. Something about this space meant he didn’t need to find the exact words because Allura would understand him anyway. 

“It is as I thought,” Allura said, and together they looked down at the yellow twined so tightly alongside Lance’s blue, yellow didn’t appear at all in the quintessence that made up Allura. “That is not supposed to be there, but I do not feel that it is harming you.”

Together, again, they glanced toward the purple. _That_ made Lance’s stomach twist, his hands curl into fists. In reality? In his head? Perhaps one or both or neither, and it didn’t matter, because they were getting closer. His heartbeat sped faster, thrumming, pounding, racing.

“I see,” Allura said, turning as if she’d spotted something Lance hadn’t. “We’re going in the right direction.”

He couldn’t _quite_ say what lingered in the spaces between their quintessence. Not darkness. Not nothingness. A footstep later and Lance heard laughter, felt it crawling up his spine. There, in the corner of his eye—Pidge clutched her stomach, laughing. Or, up ahead—Hunk, sitting at a table. Telling Lance he could eat whatever he wanted. Keith, nearly shrouded in darkness, sitting upright on his mattress in Lance’s room.

Memories. They’d found memories.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, my boy,” Coran said, stepping into view.

“I’m Keith. And you’re Lance. _Only_ Lance. That’s your name.”

“You three get him back to the ship.”

“Lance?”

“Kill them.”

Lance’s footsteps faltered, because he knew where the path was going, and that in the rest of these memories, he hadn’t been . . .

He’d been . . .

Blue.

Lotor loomed in the darkness—his friend. His only hope of improving. But he’d always been so _angry_ , disappointed and scoffing and cruel. Out there somewhere, still—as real as he felt in Lance’s mind. Always watching, never pleased.

His inhale was sharp, when it felt like something touched Lance’s elbow.

“We will never allow him to touch you again,” Allura said, and something darker crept into her voice. “We would . . . We would destroy him, before allowing him to cause you further harm.”

It didn’t really sound like something she’d say. It sounded like the sort of thing Lance would do, would be good at, under orders. He reluctantly moved forward, Allura by his side.

Past moments of failure as Lotor tested him and much more time spent alone, in his room, muzzled and punished and waiting out the pain. With Haggar, drinking any liquid she handed up, blinking blankly as she asked _What color are your eyes?_

They stopped, then. The purple writhed just before them—not living, not dormant. Lance suppressed a shudder. He wanted to be strong, not for Lotor or Voltron but for himself.

“I don’t remember much before this,” Lance said. The darkness, the nothingness around them, seemed confused, too. Flashes of half-hearted images—cold metal lab tables, destroyed sentries, bloodied hands clawing at a cell door. It made his head ache.

“Haggar’s interference cut away your earlier memories,” Allura said. “I think you . . . I want to tell you to stand back, but . . .”

But they weren’t really there. They were inside his mind, so Lance was everywhere. Beside her, behind her, standing before her. 

“It’s okay,” Lance said, and he knew she could feel it was so because he didn’t think he could lie to her, there. “I want you to try.”

“Then let us see if we can get ourselves past this barrier,” Allura said. Strong, square-shouldered, determined.

The purple flared bright before them. Allura got to work.

Trails of pink pressed against the flickering lavender, testing it, seeking a way through. But the foreign quintessence was too erratic, inconsistent. Everywhere and nowhere at once. Allura’s hands pressed down harder. Lance’s head throbbed.

It was so _bright_ , like the lights they’d used whenever he lay down on a lab table. Blurring images pressed against his eyes. Searing light shot straight through him, tearing, _tearing_ , it hurt—it _hurt_.

“There’s an opening,” Allura said, pulling him close to herself again. Enveloping him in the pink, in the calm, away from what wanted to harm him. “I see a way through.”

She took him with her, as they squeezed through the barricade in his mind. If it wasn’t quite a wall, it was at the very least a reminder of one.

Together, they stood, blue and gold and pink on the other side.

And, together, they were alone.

He tried not to look. But his eyes were already closed, so there was no way for him not to see, to ignore the emptiness around them.

“Lance,” Allura breathed. “I’m so sorry.”

His memories hadn’t been locked away from him. They hadn’t been hidden. They’d been here, once, and now . . .

They were gone.

There was nothing left for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ummmmmmmmmmmm oops okay it can't be THAT easy can it???
> 
> Also, I'm surprising myself by how present Allura is in this fic, but I love her and her friendship with Lance so I hope I'm doing them justice alongside the softness hours with Keith. I'm thinking there are around 10 chapters left, but there's also a lot to cover so I'm not finalizing that just yet. The length also got away from me!
> 
> Please let me know your thoughts! I loved all of your comments on the last chapter, our boy is doing so well!! And I'm sure the end to this chapter will do nothing to change that!!
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	16. Life Goes On

He didn’t know what to do.

Lance was there, right there, a handful of feet away. Physically. Hands clenched into fists, pulverizing his way through training levels. No sharpshooting, not right then; Lance moved like he was trying to escape something, like he was desperate, and his eyes were wide and blank and elsewhere.

He’d been restless ever since he and Allura had returned from their trip within his mind. When Allura had told the others, quietly, that they had failed, and there was no indication that anything else they did to Lance’s mind would make any difference. No improvement. No memories. No new plan for what to try next.

Keith couldn’t stand it.

He’d followed Lance, who’d made his excuses and slipped out of the med bay. Keith had been the one to suggest heading to the training room because he thought he recognized that gleam in Lance’s eyes. Like he stood on the edge of a cliff, and had once had the security of a rope tethering him to solid ground. A rope that’d just been sliced through.

Pieces of gladiator bots had been scattered around the room. No one let Lance in there anymore without supervision because he still forgot, sometimes, that he didn’t need to keep fighting. Keith didn’t see a reason to stop Lance, not yet. He didn’t even look winded, reaching forward and twisting another bot’s head from its shoulders. Eyes glinting that unnatural, dimmed yellow, Lance threw the part as far as he could. It bounced harmlessly against the floor, tumbling and skidding until it rested a few feet away from Keith.

The training room was quiet, apart from the sparking bot and Lance’s panting.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Keith asked while Lance stood there catching his breath.

It was the third time he’d asked. He thought maybe his voice was helping, keeping Lance grounded, but couldn’t be certain. At the very least it didn’t seem like Lance thought he was _elsewhere_ , with someone else, expected to fight and fight and fight until exhaustion or lethal injuries dropped him. His gaze was clouded, but with emotion. Not confusion. Keith’s chest felt tight whenever he thought about naming the feelings he could see gathering beneath Lance’s skin.

He wondered if his friend felt comfortable enough even then, naming those emotions Lotor had taught him he wasn’t supposed to feel.

“No,” Lance said after a moment, starting up the next level of the training sequence. Making his own decisions, speaking his own mind.

He wasn’t hurt.

It was fine.

So Keith remained there, leaning back against the wall. He waited. And he waited. As Lance’s blows came a little faster, a little sloppier.

“I just wanted to know,” Lance said in the space of silence left behind after metal had been shredded by his bare hands. He peered down at them, rubbing his fingers together, before ducking a blow aimed at him by a remaining bot. Dodged, kicked out a knee, dented metal that was supposed to be stronger than anything found on Earth. Blocked a staff that materialized suddenly, swiped sweat from his eyes.

Keith kept quiet. He knew what it was like not to be able to find the right words for things. To find it hard to relate to other people with different pasts, and experiences, and families who spent time on things like considering each other’s emotions. Maybe that was why Lance liked spending time with him so much, now. Sometimes, most of the time, neither of them knew what to say.

“I just wanted to remember,” Lance said, stealing the staff away and stabbing the bot with its own weapon. “The _me_ in those pictures you all showed me. On the—the datapad.”

They hadn’t been able to find Lance’s, but sometimes Keith let Lance use his—it wasn’t like he had much use for it, anyway. There were shared photos on his datapad sent by all the other Paladins. An album of Lance they’d used in the beginning to show the version of him they’d once known, still loved.

_Liked_. 

Because they were friends.

“The _me_ who had a—a home. A whole planet. Air that isn’t recycled through a ship. A . . .” He trailed off, shoving the gladiator’s body aside. A hole opened in the ground, taking the destroyed metal away. “A family. I don’t even have any pictures of them. I don’t even know them.”

When Lance didn’t call for another training level to begin, Keith shoved away from the wall. Their eyes met, and Lance’s were clearer, but not in any way that worried Keith less.

“Will they be like all of you?” Lance asked. “I didn’t remember any of you. I didn’t remember having any friends. But you . . . You showed me. You reminded me, sort of. We’re together again, and it’s okay, but it’s different. So will my family be like all of you? Would they still want me even if I’ve forgotten them?”

Keith wondered what Lance knew about family without his memories. He knew the few stories Keith had told him about his parents—the father who’d died and left him, the mother who’d gone to space and left him, too. Allura spoke of her lost family. Shiro mentioned his, sometimes, quietly. Pidge and Hunk, they talked about their families the most, and maybe that’d been the start of it all. They’d known Lance’s family, too. They talked about families who made it so home wasn’t a place, but the people you’d left behind. Siblings who were always there for you. Parents who made warm meals and chased away monsters and . . . dried your tears.

Lifting a hand, Lance pressed his fingertips against his own cheekbone. His golden eyes were wide, wide and horrified because he hadn’t seemed to realize a few tears had slipped free. Tracking down his cheeks.

“Don’t be stupid,” Keith said, and he might have snapped, but at least the startled change to Lance’s expression shifted it to something less despairing. “Of course they’ll still want you. You know how hard we tried to get you back here? I’m sure they’re doing the same, looking for you on Earth. Waiting for you to come home. Yes,” he said, interrupting Lance before he could even fully open his mouth. “Waiting even if you don’t know who they are. Even if they have to reintroduce themselves and show you pictures and videos and reteach you anything else you can’t remember.”

Because who wouldn’t want to do that for Lance.

Because if anyone tried anything that hurt him, if anyone considered Lance as lesser than for forgetting, Keith would . . . probably, actually, murder them.

So he was certain in all the ways that counted most that Lance’s family would accept him as he was. Even if he never remembered. Even if all he could tell them was how much he wished he hadn’t been forced to forget.

They sat down together in the training room, back to back. They made a good team.

“Have you met them?” Lance asked.

“Met them?” Keith asked. He was listening—he always listened, when it came to Lance. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still new at all of this. Talking. _Feeling_ things, and trying to make someone else feel better. Concentrating on conversation.

“My family.”

“No. You . . . I told you when we met. Pidge and Hunk, they probably know them really well. We can find them, if you want. They could tell you more stories,” Keith said. He knew it wasn’t the same, because he’d experienced it himself in a way. Remembered a crowded funeral parlor, large figures crowded around him, the only child there. People telling stories about his father who was gone, who’d never come back. Stories that didn’t feel real because Keith hadn’t been there to experience them, too, or because he’d been too young to remember the details. 

He’d clung to memories, again, after Lance had been taken.

“I want to stay here,” Lance said, though his voice was soft, as if he really wanted to ask Keith if that was alright. “I just thought that, maybe, if we can’t get my memories back, but we do go back home, to . . . to . . .”

“Earth.”

“To Earth, then I wouldn’t want to find my family alone. I don’t even know how to explain this,” Lance said.

He shifted against Keith’s back, and he knew Lance was speaking about the whole of himself. Going into space, kidnapped in space, losing so much in space. Too many experiences for anyone to try summarizing.

“I’m sure Pidge and Hunk would—”

“And if my parents already know them, I don’t want to be the only person not understanding everything that’s happening. I . . . you’re all . . . nice. But that’s what it’s like, here. You all know everything I don’t. I don’t want it to be like that forever,” Lance said. His shoulder shifted again and then Keith turned to see Lance already looking at him. Face too close to his, eyes faintly gold and creased and _tired_.

“I’m sure Shiro would come to drop you all off, anyway,” Keith pointed out. “He wouldn’t make everyone go on their own, and he doesn’t know your family, either—”

“Keith.” Lance’s lips twitched. For a sudden, thrilling, frustrating moment, Keith thought he was going to be laughed at.

“What? _What_ , Lance, you can’t mean—”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I—”

“Already spend every night in my room so I remember where I am when I wake up,” Lance said.

Keith’s mouth hung open because, well, that was _true_ , and he probably should have convinced one of the others to take over but he liked remembering where Lance was, when _he_ woke up, too much to change anything.

“So you could come home with me and help me remember then that it’s okay I forgot?”

Keith shook his head, but immediately regretted the action because Lance flinched backward.

“Wait, no—I didn’t mean _no_ , I just—” He reached forward to catch Lance’s shoulder, stilling him. “I could do that. If you wanted. But you _won’t_ want that, because we aren’t giving up, yet. Allura’s thing didn’t work, but that isn’t the end of the line. Why are you so convinced you’re never going to remember anything?”

“Because the memories weren’t there,” Lance said. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, rubbing too harshly. “If they aren’t here, then there’s a chance they’re somewhere else. Right?”

“I guess so,” Keith said. Uncertain, mostly because he didn’t like the way Lance was looking at him. “Maybe?”

“Well,” Lance said, before he hesitated. His expression crumpled, and he lifted his hand again, as if to preemptively check to make sure he hadn’t done something like cry.

Catching his fingers, Keith pulled Lance’s hand lower and waited.

“I don’t want to ever go back there,” Lance said. “I don’t think I do even if they still have them.”

Oh.

Keith should have known, in the destruction scattered throughout the training room. The desperation written in ragged lines on Lance’s face, so visible for someone who still thought half the time he needed to hide his emotions. He should have known because Lance was scared and only one thing really made him so frightened, anymore. The kind of scared he’d never admit to.

Lotor. Haggar. It did make sense. If they were the ones to take Lance’s memories away, then, maybe, they were the only ones who could give them back.

If they still existed somewhere.

If there was a way to coerce them into letting them go.

They would never help Lance. They’d only try to take more away from him.

“We don’t need to go back,” Keith said, realizing too late he held Lance’s hand too tight. “You don’t need to go back.”

“But—”

“Yeah, we might need to find Lotor, eventually. We need to stop him,” Keith said. “But that doesn’t mean you need to face him, alright? I want to be the one to stab his smug purple face, anyway.”

Lance was giving him a strange look, but Keith didn’t care. The thought of revenge kept him almost as warm as the heat of Lance’s hand against his did.

“Okay,” Lance said. “I think maybe I’d like that.”

\- - -

Time passed. No one mentioned going after Lotor. Instead, Lance insisted on joining them on other missions. Small ones. Important ones.

And Keith would never admit to watching over him. He knew they were all doing it in their own ways, but being apart from Lance, now, for Keith . . . it felt like—like walking away from an oasis in the middle of the desert. Something devastating. Something impossible.

They delivered supplies to some of their allies, planets they knew and trusted. Aliens who were quick to reintroduce themselves to Lance, to assure him they’d answer any questions or tell him anything he might have forgotten. As long as one of the other Paladins were around, Lance seemed to like meeting new people. Keith didn’t know why that surprised him; even without his memories, Lance was still himself. Even if he did lift his hand now as if to smother his expression whenever he smiled or laughed or did anything to break his cold neutrality.

He caught Lance outside on the first planet they visited, helmet cradled in the crook of his arm. Inhaling deep, face turned toward an unfamiliar sun.

There were distress beacons and rescue missions. Civilians trapped in a mine. A facility falling apart underwater. Solar storms that’d broken communications systems on a planet filled with winged people who looked so close to human.

After the last mission, they took a planetside break. Pidge and Hunk coaxed Lance into the water while Keith watched from shore, half-convinced someone was going to drown. But in the end, they didn’t need to reteach Lance how to swim. He dove and splashed and nearly refused to get out when Shiro came to tell them it was time to leave. He emerged from the strange ocean, shaking his head and spraying Keith with stray droplets of water. Shrugged, when Keith had asked him if the sensation had felt familiar.

They avoided any Galra ships. For Lance, but for Allura, too, because she’d been _off_ ever since entering Lance’s mind. No one, least of all Lance, blamed her or thought that _she’d_ somehow failed. They’d been set up to lose before they’d even started. But there were still smudges beneath her eyes, growing evidence of late nights spent researching what they could try next. What they could do.

Keith and Lance spent time together, too. In the hanger, sitting between Red and Blue. In the training room. In the kitchen, where Hunk would let Lance help him with whatever meal came next and Keith sat on the counter generally getting in their way.

Part of him knew it wouldn’t last forever. 

Part of him knew the day would finally come.

They arrived on a planet that had been devastated, buildings razed, families torn apart. There was hardly enough to go around; the leadership there had sent out their emergency signal half-heartedly, thinking no one would come. Thinking it might be best if they abandoned their home, if the burden of reconstruction was too much for who had been left behind.

Lance was so quiet.

Keith kept an eye on him as they dug survivors from ruins. As they used the Lions to clear pathways and rubble. As they sat and waited while Pidge helped construct a system that would be sustainable, at least temporarily. That would keep these people alive. 

“The Galra who attacked us were . . . different,” the planet’s lead representative warned, when Voltron had done what they could and were nearly on their way. “Their ship was enormous. Well-armed. And I’ve never seen one like him. The one who lead them here.”

Keith wished the Galra hadn’t left before Voltron had arrived. For one sheer, stark moment, he wished for that missed fight. A blade sunk into an enemy, blood on his hands, a vow completed.

“White hair,” the leader said. “I’ve never seen that on the Galra, before.”

Lance had already turned away before Keith could look to him. All that time, all that staring, and in the end Keith had been useless when it mattered most. On the way back to the castleship, Lance kept a few steps ahead of him, walking like fire licked at his heels. The others were annoyed, bordering on furious—not at him, not at Lance. Not ever. Allura and Shiro spoke quietly, quick, darting words passing between them.

On board, they usually gathered in the lounge for a while. To debrief, but mostly to relax. To reassure themselves they were doing the best they could in a universe that was falling to shit.

Lance started walking to his room, unfastening his borrowed Altean armor on the way. It still looked unnatural on him, missing the blue that was somewhere _hopefully_ far away, with . . . Lotor.

“Hey,” Keith called after him, and then jogged forward to catch up when Lance showed no signs of stopping. He gave no sign he didn’t want Keith there, either, which had to be a good sign. “Lance? Do you want to come—”

“I want to go to my room,” Lance said, as clear a decision as ever came from him.

They went, together, and Lance didn’t protest when Keith helped him out of the last of his armor. He thought that with Lance’s building frustration, there was a chance he’d end up denting it if he tried wrestling with it himself. Or, at the very least, damage one of his walls. He set the pieces down carefully on Lance’s desk, where there should have been a growing pile of souvenirs from the planets they’d recently visited. There were none. Lance took nothing wherever they went.

“He isn’t going to hurt you again,” Keith said.

“I remember everything he did to train me,” Lance said, and his hands gripped into fists tight enough to break bone. “I know how he’d hurt me again, if he has the chance. _This_ is different.”

“Lance—”

“All those people,” Lance said. “Their planet. Their lives are different, _they’re_ different, or they’re _dead_ , and I should have—”

“You should have _what_?” Keith said, stepping forward. Jabbing a finger toward Lance, though he didn’t touch him. “Known Lotor was going to do this?”

“Tried to—tried to stop him,” Lance said. “It’s my fault that he was able to do this. I’m the reason why we haven’t tried to stop him. I didn’t want to see him, but—"

“This isn’t your fault,” Keith said. He wanted to grab Lance, to shake him, but knew that would probably only scare him. “It wouldn’t be your fault even if you were still with Lotor. Even if you were doing what he told you to do. These are his decisions. His actions. It’s _his_ fault.”

“But if you hadn’t found me,” Lance said. “You’d still be going after him. Trying to stop him. Wouldn’t you? You’d keep him from doing things like this.”

Keith didn’t like thinking about those three months missing Lance. Hardly sleeping. Training until his muscles burned as much as his eyes did whenever he thought of Lance and remembered all over again that he was gone. Worrying about what could be happening to him; trying to avoid thinking that Lance hadn’t even survived long enough to be taken off the ship they’d left him on.

Tracking any sign of Lance. Knowing that the closer they got to Lotor, to Haggar, the better the chance they had of finding their lost Paladin. If there was still someone left to rescue.

Yes, they’d spent all that time going after Lotor. Maybe not for the good of the universe. Maybe just because of how desperately they needed their friend to be safe.

“You told me I can feel anything I want to, here,” Lance said. “But I think I need to stop being afraid.”

“You want to go after Lotor,” Keith said. The words felt sticky, protesting, resisting speech. Everything inside him chanting _no no no_ because Lotor had done this to Lance. Broken him down and taken his memories and turned him into someone who’d been full of fear and too much strength. Who’d come onto the castleship knowing he needed to pretend not to be afraid, to obey every order, because that was all Lotor had wanted.

What if that was still rooted in there, the worst pieces of him, ready for Lotor to bring back out again?

What if Lotor got his hands on Lance?

“Please,” Lance said. “It’s . . . worse. Knowing he’ll hurt someone else.”

And Keith understood, and Keith _hated_ that he understood. Because hadn’t he spent _months_ wishing he’d been taken instead of Lance? Facing imprisonment and torture and death wouldn’t have felt half as gut-wrenchingly awful as sitting back and knowing someone else—his friend, his Lance—was experiencing that instead.

So he knew what the answer needed to be. It didn’t matter that he hated himself for doing so. Keith nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: I need to make them going on missions into a montage moment so this fic doesn't drag on forever
> 
> also me: I feel the urge to write 10k just about Lance breathing planetside for the first time and swimming
> 
> Thank you all so much for all of your comments on the last chapter! I hope you all had a happy holiday/December and will have a great 2021. This month hit hard (hence the week late update oops) and I wanted to say that I do reread comments sometimes because they mean so much--you're all the greatest, seriously. Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read :D I'm hoping this chapter didn't move too fast, but rest assured everyone's going to lose their shit in the next chapter and I have some wonderfully horrible things in store for Keith and Lance so you have that to look forward to in 2021. 
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	17. By Your Side

Lance focused on his feet, snug in a warm, thick pair of blue socks. Swinging back and forth, back and forth, over the edge of the infirmary cot.

“Just a tick, lad,” Coran said, so Lance stilled immediately. “There we are. The scan will be over faster than you can say—ah. Well, it seems like it’s already finished!”

It was impossible not to try matching Coran’s smile when he seemed so enthusiastic about whatever his equipment was telling him. Lance understood none of it and, unlike most things these days, asked no questions. Coran would tell him if there was anything wrong, and he’d tell him if everything was alright. Lance didn’t need to know more than that. He didn’t need to know how they were comparing him to the previous version of himself. He didn’t need to know all the ways in which he’d changed.

“Lance?” Coran blinked expectantly, and Lance realized it was the second time he’d called for him. He obediently held out his arm so Coran could swipe a different device across his wrist.

It was hard to focus.

The room smelled like sharp metal and all the things that reminded him of laying flat on his back, trying not to scream because that always made Haggar angry and then Lotor would punish him. The cot was hard beneath him, uncomfortable, just like his bed had been on a different ship. Lance didn’t want to think about that. His thoughts kept slipping away involuntarily. Traitorously.

To sunshine, real sunlight, warming his skin. Air that smelled like too many things, sharp and crisp and almost burning, enough to overwhelm him after living on the recycled stuff on different ships. And water, deep water, under and above and around him. The steady pull of his muscles as he swam, a good kind of ache—

“Are you feeling tired, my boy?” Coran had sat down beside him, at some point. “Tell me what you would like to do, now.”

Coran was too good at noticing things, seeing when Lance wasn’t really there anymore.

Lance knew if he wanted to stop, Coran would. If he wanted to leave, Coran would let him, and if he wanted Keith, Coran would call him over the comms, faster than . . . Well, Lance could never remember any of the comparisons Coran made, because they never seemed to be repeated.

“No,” Lance said. “We can keep going. I was only thinking.”

He wished they were still on a planet. He wanted to breath in air that smelled like trees and flowers and dirt, to let sunlight burn his skin and water wrinkle his fingers. Pidge had laughed at how fascinated Lance had been by his own hands after Shiro had finally told them they needed to get out of the water.

“The good news is the tests are concluded,” Coran said. “There is no bad news, but some . . . confusing results, if you would like to hear them.”

Lance knew there was a different between not wanting to hear something and knowing it would be better for him if he did listen. It made his stomach turn as he nodded.

“Your quintessence levels are still unusual,” Coran said. “But they appear lower than they were when you were last scanned. Not declining at a rate that alarms me, but there is a noticeable change. I want you to be careful, lad. There’s no telling how this will affect your strength, or other . . . abilities.”

The others liked to walk delicately around that concept, as if there were possibly other things about Lance that were different and he simply hadn’t told them. Or didn’t even know about.

“I’ll be fine,” Lance said. “Keith said I’m allowed to heal myself whenever I want to, now.”

They’d stepped up their training since Lance had announced his decision to the others. _Find Lotor_. Stop Lotor. No one ever really hurt him while they sparred and strategized and planned, and the minor bruises and scrapes Lance did collect were always accidental. Easily healed, with hardly a thought.

“Right,” Coran agreed. But the way his shoulders slumped made Lance uneasy. “That isn’t something we want to rely on, my boy. Best not to be hurt at all in the first place, right?”

“Right,” Lance agreed, thinking it might make Coran feel better. It _would_ be nice, but pain wasn’t something that could just be wished away. It always came back to find him in the end.

The Altean eased off the bed, bustling around the infirmary. Setting away a scanner, brushing plastic into the garbage chute, muttering to himself about a few mechanical bits Pidge or Hunk had left behind.

“Hey, Coran?” Lance spoke up, hands curling into the stiff sheets beneath him. He wasn’t quite ready to leave. Not just because there was something calming about Coran’s presence; he seemed to know a lot about the universe. And even though he hadn’t known the paladins very long, according to the history told to Lance, he could probably help. Answer some things Lance couldn’t bring to the person he usually questioned.

“Yes?” Coran turned, almost too sharply. He seemed to physically restrain himself from asking if Lance was alright.

“I need to ask you something about Keith.” Lance shifted and the cot creaked beneath him. He’d been trying for days to gather the words together, his thoughts, but they kept slipping away like so much water between his fingers. This was so much harder than swimming.

“You can ask me anything, Lance,” Coran said. “Always.”

“I don’t know how to say it,” Lance confessed. “But sometimes, around Keith . . . he makes me feel . . . weird. But in a good way? Sometimes my heartbeat feels . . . funny. Too fast. I can’t breathe right, and it’s hard to think. Are you—are you sure there’s nothing wrong with me?”

Lance didn’t think he’d ever seen Coran smile so quickly before, coughing lightly, the Altean tried to hide his expression.

“No, lad,” Coran said. “I think you’re just fine.”

\- - -

He didn’t feel _fine_ when Keith asked to speak to him alone one day. The team had mentioned something about sending or receiving information from something called the Blades of Marmora, and then they’d all stared at him in a way that made Lance extremely uncomfortable. Until Keith had sort of slumped forward and said that he’d explain. Then he’d asked the others to give them some space, and asked Lance if they could talk alone, so ultimately they’d ended up on one of the observation decks. Stars surrounding them, discomfort in Keith’s eyes.

Because he’d been keeping something from Lance. They all had. He wasn’t stupid, no matter what Lotor had told him, and he knew they’d never mentioned any Blades or Marmora around him before.

“I didn’t want to tell you because you were so scared of the Galra when we first found you,” Keith said. “You only knew Lotor, and Haggar, and they don’t really . . . they aren’t a good example.”

Instinct made Lance want to deny his fear, to say he hadn’t been afraid at all when he’d been taken back from Lotor. But he had the words now to describe those emotions he’d felt—that he wasn’t supposed to feel. He’d been terrified of Lotor, terrified he’d disappointed him, terrified Lotor had decided to pass him off to someone worse because he hadn’t improved quickly enough.

“I saw videos of other Galra,” Lance said, though he didn’t think that was helpful. “During my training. I know what the Galra look like. What they’re like.”

“No, you don’t. Not if you’ve only seen the Galra as Lotor wanted you to see them,” Keith said. He looked like he either wanted to cry or punch something, which worried Lance even more. “Not all Galra are bad, Lance. Not all of them want to hurt people, like Lotor hurt you. Us. That planet he just left in pieces. Some Galra want to protect the universe, too.”

Lance pressed his lips together. He’d met all sorts of aliens on the planets they visited, and even when meeting with allies, not everyone was kind. It made sense, sort of. Not every one of those aliens had to be good. Not every one of the Galra had to be bad.

“Okay,” Lance said.

Keith blinked at him, as if he’d been anticipating a different response.

“What?” Lance shrugged. “Unless—I’m not going with them. I want to stay here with all of you. But if you have other friends you work with, I . . . I trust all of you. They’ll be my friends, too.”

“The others wanted to tell you earlier,” Keith said, face tight as if it was a confession. “I thought it would be too much for you. I thought—I—I underestimated you, Lance. I’m sorry. We should have told you sooner, but they wanted to wait for me to say something, because I’m the one that . . . I’m . . . I’m—”

“Are you alright?” Lance scanned Keith quickly—he didn’t appear to be injured. But he was stammering oddly, and gripping one arm with the other. It looked like he’d love nothing more than to run away.

“I’m half-Galra, Lance. My mother, she’s . . . and I’m . . . I’m part of them. The Blades. So I didn’t tell you, because we were trying to convince you Lotor hadn’t really wanted to help you, that he was the real enemy, and I thought it’d be confusing if I said anything sooner,” Keith said. “So. Sorry.”

Lance’s brow creased—not from the revelation or the fact that the others had kept the information from him, but because Keith was apologizing. And sounded like he truly meant it. Part of him wondered if it’d been easiest to cling to Keith out of the others because of this; maybe some part of Lance had recognized that Keith was most like Lotor, in some way that had little to do with how either acted around him. But he dismissed the thought nearly as quickly as it came. He didn’t hover near Shiro, and his arm made out of Galra tech. 

Keith was just . . . Keith. And looked a little like he was going to throw up.

“You aren’t purple,” Lance pointed out.

“Uh, no,” Keith said.

“You’re my friend.”

“Yeah,” Keith said, clearing his throat. “I guess, we’re—yeah, we’re friends.”

“You’re too short, though, aren’t you?”

“Lance,” Keith sighed, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “How is it possible for you to lose all your memories and still harass me about my height? Aren’t there more important things to focus on?”

“Like what?” Lance asked, until he realized Keith was serious. “Oh. Not really? It isn’t like you’re going to hurt me, Keith. This just means that there are more people who are going to help us find Lotor. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“Yes? I just thought you’d be less calm about this.”

He thought about it and decided that, yes, he _was_ angry that they’d all kept this a secret from him. It frustrated him to know they still thought there were things he was incapable of handling just because several terrible things had happened to him.

But they’d told him the truth, in the end. He guessed that was the most important part.

“Maybe you _are_ a little like other Galra,” Lance conceded as Keith frowned. “Even in the videos I’ve seen, they’re always grouchy. Like you.”

\- - -

They were training, and Lance was in the middle of wondering if it was taking him a little too long to tear bots apart, when Allura came in with the news.

They had a lead. They’d found him. The Blades found _him_.

Lance didn’t know whether he wanted to throw up or find something else to rip apart. Instead, he dropped the metal that’d been nestled in his hands. The others seemed to be calmer when Lance kept back behind them, blaster in hand, shooting and fighting from afar. But there was something so satisfying about physically ripping his way through his enemies—even if the metal seemed a little weightier, more substantial these days. He wondered if it was the castleship adapting to him, giving him more of a challenge.

“One of our contacts with the Blades has sent the coordinates,” Allura said, gesturing for them to follow her. Out of the training room, down the hall. There’s no time to waste; they’d already wasted too much time while Lance was trying to avoid Lotor altogether. “They’re unsure of how long he may be in that system. Their closest sources do not think Haggar is currently with him, but we must remain alert. Lotor will surely have other tricks up his sleeve.”

It felt like they were rushing, like they didn’t have enough of a plan, and as Lance put on his armor he wondered if that was his fault. He stared down at the Altean white and glowing teal, unable to match the bayard he still felt uncomfortable practicing with. He preferred other weaponry, familiar pieces he remembered from his training with Lotor. Even if that preference left a little note of discomfort in the back of his throat, a sour turn to his stomach that he thought came from the Blue Lion.

Blue. The real Blue, not the name that’d been stolen and used for him while he’d been away. This would be his first time flying a Lion into battle. Just him and Blue and all the danger the universe could throw at them. He liked knowing his other friends would be there, supporting him. Saving him. But Lance knew he wouldn’t let the others get hurt.

He’d get on that ship and face Lotor himself.

Even if, when he’d been taken away, Lance had still thought of Lotor as his only friend.

Even if thinking of it all for too long made his hands shake.

The others were gathering in the hanger; Coran and Allura were positioning the castle. There’d been chatter over the comms and it’d been fast and overwhelming and Lance didn’t want to admit he hadn’t been listening. He was afraid the others would decide that he wasn’t ready for this. That they’d need to stop.

But then more planets would fall. More would be hurt. Just because he couldn’t remember a family didn’t mean he wanted others to lose theirs.

“Hey,” Keith said when Lance strode into the hanger. Past the dent left by his body the first time he’d reconnected with Blue. Past Pidge, fixing something on Green. Hunk, breathing too quickly and Shiro, talking him down.

“Hi.” Lance stopped beside Keith.

“Tell me what you’re going to do,” Keith demanded. “When we get to the other side of that wormhole and Lotor’s ship is on the other side. Tell me the plan.”

Lance recognized it as a test. He’d been good at them, after too many mistakes to count with Lotor. He’d improved.

But his hands were still shaking.

“Black and Yellow will try to draw most of his fire,” Lance said. “The castleship will provide defensive cover while Green gets close to disable some of the shields. Blue and Red follow Green and target the weapons up close.”

Keith watched him, but Lance refused to say anything else. There was nothing more to say. That _was_ the plan, and they all knew it, and they also knew it would probably fall to pieces because Lotor would have something unexpected waiting for them. He’d had the few months since Lance’s rescue to ensure it wouldn’t be so easy to slip onto his ship again.

“Red is going into the hanger once Green unlocks it for us,” Keith said.

Heart sinking, Lance really knew what he was saying was _And Blue stays away._

That’d been what the chatter on the comms was all about, right?

That Blue needed to be outside the ship to freeze Lotor’s cannons, to damage the communications system, to provide cover when it was time for Green and Red to pull out.

Lance knew what he’d said. He’d never let Lotor hurt him again. But . . . he would. Wouldn’t he? He’d do it freely, if it meant the others stayed safe. His friends.

“Okay,” Lance said, meeting Keith’s gaze. Purple, but nothing like the other Galra Lance had known. This purple was both gentle and steely; this purple made Lance’s heartbeat quicken.

Leaning forward, Keith knocked his helmet against Lance’s.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Keith said. “And I’ll be right here, always, if you need me.”

He tapped his finger against the side of his helmet, his comms, and Lance nodded.

They went into their Lions. The castleship shuddered. They were almost there.

\- - -

_Blue_. Lance knew he hadn’t been so good to the Blue Lion, that maybe she deserved better. A Paladin who remembered her. Who could face his past without feeling like he would fall apart.

Who didn’t avoid her, sometimes, when it grew too hard to be close.

Because his mind could feel hers, and hers his, and that meant he knew she held out hope that someday he’d remember everything. How they’d met. Every battle they’d fought together. She showed him, sometimes. Shallow impressions in his mind of his own voice calling her beautiful or visiting her when he couldn’t sleep or locking himself in her cockpit after a long fight.

He got the feeling she always wished she could wipe away his tears. Keep him from crying at all in the first place.

It made Lance think that maybe Lotor had been right in some ways, that Lance _had_ been weaker in the past.

Sitting, he flexed his hands over the controls. Blue hummed around him—alive, awake, ready. The other Lions were waking as well, Paladins flickering into the corners of Lance’s viewscreen. But he wanted time for just the two of them. Him and Blue. Nothing got past her. She’d know him, all of him. She’d see past his anticipation, his excitement.

Lance loved to fly. He hadn’t been able to pilot Blue alone during a battle, not yet. They’d landed on a few friendly planets and Lance had taken her out for plenty of practice flights but this—this would be different. This was something they were headed into without any guarantee of liking the outcome.

She’d see how scared he was.

She’d see all the things he would be willing to do to make sure Lotor never touched him again.

And if anything happened to the others—

His friends—

_Keith_ —

Lance already felt a little like he was cracking apart at the edges. The gold in his eyes a little dimmer. The surety in his strength failing.

It didn’t matter. It was almost over. He could make it. He _had_ to.

Blue was in his mind, presence warm, soothing. Calm, like the water Lance had plunged into, cutting through without a memory of where he’d learned to swim. He knew Blue would protect him, that he wouldn’t be fighting alone even though the others were all in their separate Lions. She didn’t want to lose him again.

“Thanks, girl,” Lance said, pulling in a breath a little easier. Patting the side of his ship.

With Blue in his heart, Allura’s voice in his ears, they took off toward the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really excited to get to the next several chapters! They're about the throw down, and so much is going to happen, and . . . that's partially why I can't even say anymore how many chapters are left. The length is sort of getting away from me, and there are several beats I want to hit before wrapping this up. We're definitely well on the way though :D
> 
> THANK YOU to everyone who commented on the last chapter!! I hope you're all doing as well as can be. I loved your reactions to Lance's decision in the last chapter and hope this one will tide you over until we get to see Lotor again. What did you think of this one?
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


	18. I Can't Reach You Anymore

Space was beautiful, and it was terrifying, and it still hit Keith all at once sometimes, that he’d actually made it out among the stars. After losing Shiro, after being kicked out of the Garrison, a dream had died. Once, he’d only wanted to fly faster and farther, piloting machines few had ever had the privilege to touch. To feel the kind of freedom that meant leaving Earth behind.

Back then, he’d been sure that’d mean leaving Shiro behind, too. Every appointment, every test said Shiro’s career was on the decline, that their futures might divide because his was so uncertain. It was funny in a terrible way, how the universe had decided to give them so many more days together. There was Shiro, tucked into a corner of Keith’s viewscreen, voice filtering through the comms as he relayed orders. Pidge, Hunk, then Allura and Coran in the castle—they were all there, too.

Lance and Blue, they were the last ones to come online. His was the last face to join them, brows furrowed, lips pressed tight. So _serious_. Keith had never thought he’d miss Lance’s stupid quips, his distracting jokes. The finger guns. He still broke those out, sometimes, on the castleship—Pidge had retaught him that. But he hadn’t seemed to realize what past Lance had done for them in the heat of battle. Keeping them calm and levelheaded with his over-the-top personality and—

Lance’s eyes met Keith’s through the screen. He smiled so softly that the shift of his lips could have simply been Keith’s imagination.

_Focus_ , Keith told himself. _Focus. You can talk to Lance after this is over. You can both move on after Lotor is neutralized. Patience yields focus._

Keith had never been very good at being patient. Not in any of his foster homes, not at the Garrison, and certainly not in space. As several Galra fighters spilled from the nearby battle cruiser, Keith and Red picked up speed. They _could_ have gone faster; Red grumbled at the restraint, but Pidge and Green needed them nearby.

Protect Green. Enter the hanger once Pidge hacked their way in. Locate Lotor.

And then—

Keith’s hands tightened on the controls and Red growled, heat flickering in his chest.

“Lance, there’s a fighter on your tail. Hunk, can you help him out?”

“On it! Shiro—”

“I know, I see him. Lance?”

“Target destroyed,” Lance said. He sounded so calm, the buzz of the comms softening the tension in his voice. Nearby, fighters bloomed into a thousand little pieces, snuffed in an instant by the vacuum of space. Grey and purple spun into the abyss. The debris field widened. Lance didn’t miss a single shot.

The others had managed to clear a path for them, so Green and Red took the advantage. Pressing closer to the cruiser, Pidge hunched over her keyboard as her Lion did most of the maneuvering. A few overconfident fighters turned their way; Keith and Red made quick work of them, blasting them to pieces.

The Galra wouldn’t hurt any of his friends ever again.

“Okay, Keith, I’m in range,” Pidge said.

They were too close for any of the ship’s cannons to get an angle on them, but that _also_ meant they were the nearest targets for any departing fighters. In the line of fire almost before the Galra could sight them on the way out of their hanger.

“Opening an inactive one to buy you a little time before you’re discovered in there,” Pidge said.

“Coming up on your left, Keith.”

There was Blue, darting closer. Freezing over one of the hangers so a launching fighter smashes itself against the ice. Shooting at the cruiser’s cannons that’ve been dogging Shiro and Hunk, then aiming for their targeting systems. Their comms.

Keith knew it was part of the plan, but it still felt like a blade tracing over his skin, watching Lance get so close to Lotor’s ship.

“The shield’s damaged,” Pidge announced, triumphant. “Just give me a second for the—”

A fighter slipped close, _too_ close, and Keith realized his concentration had slipped as well. Red drew back, drawing away the fire, but this pilot was good. Weaving irregularly, avoiding every shot Keith threw at him, beam charging, _charging_ , until—

The fighter exploded in a bright burst of light. Keith didn’t need to trace the path of the beam to know where it’d come from.

“Thanks, Lance.”

Movement came in the corner of his screen—Lance taking his hands off the controls for a moment, snapping his fingers and then throwing some finger guns Keith’s way. It made his stomach clench. He wanted to be sick; he _did_ feel sick.

“Keith,” Pidge recovered his attention.

Pidge opened the hanger.

\- - -

Red. That was all he knew for a moment, a minute, giving into the rage that’d been buried in his chest. Blanketed by worry and tampered down by too many hours in the training room; ignored because there was nothing useful he could do with it. Shoved aside because anger would only hurt Lance more, in the end.

But Lance wasn’t there to see this. He and Blue were skimming the cruiser’s perimeter, giving their cannons a good run, protecting Hunk.

No, it was only Keith and Red. She’d never been great at controlling her emotions, either. It was different, what she felt for the Paladin who’d been stolen away from them—from _Keith_ , because he knew she could see and would always know how it’d affected him. Losing Lance. Losing that fight against the Galra because he’d been too weak.

He was stronger, now. He had Red’s anger to fuel him, too, even if she pulled back at the last minute, asking him not to go.

That was the realness of it for Keith and Red. They felt things so fiercely but sometimes, underneath it all, they were only afraid.

“You’ve got this, Red,” Keith said, hands leaving the controls. Red couldn’t do much on her own, but she could sit there and fire at anything that even came close to Pidge and Green.

Red’s presence was a warm embrace at the back of his mind.

He knew she’d look after Lance, too, if she had the chance.

“Okay,” Keith said, putting on his helmet. Switching on the comms so the voices of his teammates echoed in his ears. “Okay, Red. I’m ready.”

Her mouth opened as he stepped up to it. Space, black and infinite and beautiful, hovered at the edges of his periphery. Before him, blocking the view, the hanger doors sat open. There was no time for Keith to dawdle; he needed to be quick, before the fighters focused on Red and Green sitting still, suspicious. Before Lotor’s systems registered the breach in the hangers. 

“Good luck, Keith,” Allura said.

“You’ve got this, buddy,” Shiro told him.

“Be careful.” Lance sounded breathless. He sounded different, the way he did when he remembered he didn’t need to pretend to be strong around the others, that he didn’t need to be _better_. “Be safe.”

Keith launched himself out of Red’s mouth, firing his jetpack to land inside the hanger. To enter an enemy ship.

Breathing out, Keith’s bayard flashed, changing to a sword as his feet landed on metal.

He wasn’t going to leave that ship until he knew Lotor was dead.

\- - -

Grey and black and purple.

Keith remembered pacing like halls like this, before, when he’d offered to scout ahead and before, when that sword had slipped between his ribs and before, when they’d lost—he’d lost—Lance.

He remembered sneaking around corners with a Lance who’d forgotten that he was supposed to blame Keith for that loss, for all of those missing memories. A Lance who took a shot in the chest, who might have died if he hadn’t been filled with enough quintessence to heal himself.

The battle outside was going fine.

Half of his concentration was on Red, helping her help Green. The other half focused on the ship’s layout, and hiding from any sentries still patrolling the halls.

“Pidge,” Keith finally ground out when she’d been silent far too long. “Any luck getting into their security systems?”

“I’m doing all I can to give you an exit,” Pidge said—snapped, really, and Keith realized she’d been so quiet because she was frustrated. Worried, maybe, and sometimes she was too much like Keith because she would never admit it. “I don’t want them to see that I’m in their systems.”

So, really, she didn’t want them to see that _Keith_ was in there. Fine. He didn’t want the Galra knowing that, either. It meant he’d have that many more targets to take out before he could get to Lotor.

His bayard seemed to hum against his hand. 

“Fine,” Keith said. “I’m making my way toward the bridge. Let me know the minute you get more info.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll reroute you if I need to,” Pidge said. Tone casual, but her voice was unusually rough. Clipped. 

“Is Lotor the only other lifeform on board?” _Lance_.

“There are others near the hangers. Keith’s moving away from them,” Pidge said. “But I can’t pick out which is Lotor. This ship was meant to join with the rest of the fleet, and—”

She broke off with a grunt and in the back of his head, Keith felt Red tensing, growling, weapons firing. 

So he heard the footsteps almost a second too late. Heaving himself forward, Keith tucked into an alcove, doing his best to meld with the shadows as a pair of sentries moved past. Their speed unhurried; their demeanor unbothered, because to them it didn’t matter that there was a battle raging just outside the hull.

He wondered if he should have destroyed them when he’d had the chance. Every sentry he successfully snuck past would be another in his way on his way out. Between him and the exit, _after_.

Tipping his head backward, Keith pressed his helmet against the metal wall, counting out another handful of seconds to ensure the coast was clear.

It was becoming too obvious to him that one way or another, he wasn’t going to be able to use Pidge’s exit through the hanger to get himself out of there. Between one breath and the next, he realized that didn’t matter.

He didn’t care.

He stepped back into the hallway.

“Which one are you?”

Maybe he hadn’t heard over the pounding footsteps of the sentries. Maybe his own heartbeat had washed out the noise of his approach. _Maybe, maybe._

“Lotor.” Keith sneered.

Because Lotor was there, all silver hair and tilted smirk and purple armor. Lotor, who took and took and _took_ and when he couldn’t get what he wanted, broke things and people and places. Lotor was destruction, Lotor was _evil_ , and he stood there eyeing Keith like he was an errant gnat who’d finally flown close enough to become an annoyance.

“Keith, did you find him?” Pidge asked.

“Status, Keith,” Shiro demanded. Shiro, his brother and guardian and best friend, who said, “Do you need backup?”

“I don’t—I don’t want you to fight him,” Lance said. The words were nearly lost beneath the others, but Keith would always be able to pick Lance out among the rest.

“Surrender,” Keith said. “We have your ship surrounded. Your fighters are nearly decimated. Your cannons are ineffective. You’ve lost, Lotor.”

“And you simply wish for me to put down my sword?” Lotor asked. His smirk had shifted into more of a pout. “So you could—what, then? Ask me to kneel? To bare my throat to you?”

His wrist swiveled, sword turning. Metal flashed, and it was all too _purple_.

“Keith, please,” Lance said. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I—I changed my mind. I want to leave.”

“Is that what the Paladins of Voltron expect from me?” Lotor asked, before he laughed. “Of course, you would. You couldn’t even hold your own against one of my sentries, could you? Nearly lost your life, and _did_ lose track of one of your own. At least _he_ seemed to recognize how weak you all are. Really, I helped you all, by improving him.”

Keith’s teeth clenched tight, and for a moment they felt too sharp, and like there were too many of them. His grip shifted on his sword; his stance shifted, too.

“Keith—” The comms had been a comforting buzz in his ears, but he no longer cared for the words thrown toward him.

“What have you done with Lance’s memories?” Keith asked.

Lotor lifted his sword, sharp as his smile. “Wouldn’t you like to come here and force me to tell you, Red?”

With a strangled yell, Keith lowered the volume on his comms and lunged forward.

Lotor was fast; he was part Galra, so of _course_ he was fast, and strong, and fought like losing wasn’t an option because he lived and breathed _victory or death_.

Keith could do that, too. Even if he’d only briefly spent time with the Blades. Even if _his_ fight stemmed more from desperation and anger than any sort of training.

Keith would win or die trying. 

Victory or death.

Their blades clashed, grey and purple against white and red. Keith felt Lotor’s strength behind each blow, pressing toward him. A laugh hidden behind those sharp teeth. Boots slipping against steel, Keith ducked. And wove. And parried. Over and over again, prodding for an opening. Looking for a pattern in Lotor’s movements. 

They paced down the hall, first Lotor forcing Keith backward, and then Keith tailing him around a corner when he managed to get Lotor on the run. Every inch of ground felt like its own battle. Every breath caught in Keith’s lungs, reminding him that he liked living, that he wanted to continue to do so, that he needed to _win_.

He struck, muscles straining, and then he saw it—the slightest hesitation in Lotor’s defense. It was enough. It would be enough.

Keith struck again, at the same time reaching for the knife at his hip. His mother’s knife. 

Lotor’s eyes widened—golden in a different sort of way than Lance’s, but for the briefest of moments they showed a kind of fear that felt familiar.

And then Lotor shifted—quick, too quick—so Keith’s knife only carved a thin line across his cheek.

Backing away, Lotor swiped the back of his hand across his skin. Scowled, even more so than usual, to see the blood Keith had drawn. Stepped back, and back, and wiped his hand off on his armor.

Then, Lotor seemed to compose himself.

Then, Lotor attacked.

The mechanics of it didn’t feel different; it wasn’t as though Lotor had been toying with him, or hadn’t been giving the fight his all to begin with. It felt more like the prince had realized there was a chance the Paladins would be victorious. That they’d defeat him, again, and this time they wouldn’t just be snatching Lance away from him. They—Keith—would ensure Lotor couldn’t hurt anyone. Ever. Again.

“You shouldn’t have hurt him,” Keith said. Or shouted, words grinding out alongside movement. “You shouldn’t have taken him. You shouldn’t have gone against us.”

His sword slipped, but it was only for a moment. It didn’t matter, anyway. He had two blades against Lotor’s one.

“What did you do with his memories?” Keith demanded again.

“You can fight, Red,” Lotor said. “I’ll give you that. But you can spend the rest of your life fighting, and killing, and you’ll never be able to make Blue remember you.”

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, Lance had said so himself, if they couldn’t recover his memories.

“But he’ll never be able to forget me,” Lotor said.

It happened so quick, too quick. Keith shifted a moment too late to block Lotor, and then his bayard was tangled in Lotor’s hilt, yanked out of his grip. A line of fire, of pain, drew across his other hand, and Keith tried to keep his grip on his knife. He _tried_. But the pain grew worse until finally, with a howl, he let go.

He let go.

The blade clattered onto the floor, and Lotor kicked at it before Keith could think to move.

Then there was a sword at his neck, and Keith knew the pain wouldn’t last much longer. He’d felt worse, and the others would be fine, and Red would be okay, and—

He’d been through worse, but it was suddenly too hard to swallow.

“Drop your weapon,” Lotor said.

Keith flexed his bare hands, wondering if he’d missed something. He _wanted_ a weapon to use against the prince, but he had nothing, and he wondered if this was some farce cooked up by the half-Galra to use as an excuse to chop off Keith’s head.

He kept his chin up, so it was easy to hear the clatter of something hitting the ground behind him.

Then Keith glanced over his shoulder, and looked and looked and couldn’t _stop_ looking. His breath caught in his chest, gaze frozen.

“Lance?”

That was—that was _Lance_. Expression blank and still and _dead_ , lighting up in the flash that came as his bayard shifted out of its blaster state. Lying abandoned on the ground.

“You weren’t answering,” Lance said. It was a fact, not an apology, and Keith only realized then—only remembered—that the voices of his fellow Paladins were nothing more than a faint buzz in his ears.

Because he’d been focused on Lotor.

Because he’d been so sure he would _win_.

“—abandoned Blue!” Pidge’s voice came through when his volume readjusted. “Keith, you have to—”

“Find Lance,” Shiro said. “Keith, come in. Find Lance, and get out—”

“Hello?” Hunk called. “Why aren’t they answering? Guys, why aren’t they—”

There were sentries in the hall behind Lance.

“Blue,” Lotor said. “I’ve missed you.”

“Don’t,” Keith said, before Lance could react. Because he _wasn’t_ reacting, he was just standing there. Hands limp. Shoulders back. _Waiting_. “You don’t get to talk to him.”

Pain flared when Keith tried to move—uncertain of what he would do, only knowing he needed to do something—and Lotor’s sword shifted. His hand throbbed, but then something knocked against his head—something heavy and hard and final. Vision spinning, Keith slumped, trying to right himself against the ground. Trying to stand. Black spots crowded his vision; he tried to force them back.

“Take them,” Lotor said. “We’re leaving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: well they're probably expecting something to happen to Lance
> 
> also me: okay so something worse should happen then excellent idea
> 
> I'm back, an entire week and a half late but we're still going strong! Thank you SO much for all the comments on the last chapter, I hope you like this one :D Things are about to get pretty interesting. We love angst. 
> 
> Also, you've probably noticed but there are some differences from canon in here (there was never a full Lion swap, Keith didn't go off and train with the Blades) so please let me know if anything ever gets confusing. Mostly those things aren't there because it was . . . easier for me, haha.
> 
> I'll try not to leave you all with this cliff hanger for too long ;)
> 
> Find me over on [tumblr](http://imreadingabook.tumblr.com)!


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